


Young Hearts

by detailsinthefabric



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Magic-Users
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-10-25 19:24:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10770840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detailsinthefabric/pseuds/detailsinthefabric
Summary: When Prince Gwaine of Lothian runs away from an arranged marriage, his best friend and manservant Merlin is forced to take his place as temporary fiancé. But while Gwaine is desperately looking for a way out, Merlin starts to be drawn to the temperamental but well-intentioned Prince Arthur and the new life he represents. How will a peasant warlock survive going from nothing to a royal wedding with no steps in between? [A romantic adaptation of "The Prince and the Pauper."]





	1. Mur Drain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who ever thought I would be writing Merthur fanfic again? Not me, that's for sure! But with summer in the air and free time on my hands, I always somehow end up turning to the show that broke my heart. 
> 
> Trying to equally distribute my love between Merlin, Arthur, and Gwaine has always been my main prerogative - hopefully it shows. Thanks for reading. :)

Gwaine and Merlin were born on the same day, in the same kingdom, under the same stars.  
  
Gwaine had been born to a great celebration. The king christened him after himself and his father before him. A minister entered the royal bedroom to approve and legalize the baby as second heir to the throne right away. The baby bawled and screeched in the minister’s arms as the king reverently noted that he already had dark curls like his mother.  
  
The court physician made it down to the apothecary just in time to assist Merlin’s mother in the last throes of labour. Merlin opened his eyes within seconds of being born, and didn’t cry when Gaius slapped him on the back to take his first breaths. Hunith didn’t think he looked anything like her or his father. He was so pale, and his eyes so blue, that the child looked like he had been shaped out of the night sky itself.  
  
“He’s special,” said Hunith softly, “isn’t he?”  
  
“Like that was ever in doubt,” joked Gaius, deliberately ignoring the note of fear in Hunith’s voice. He looked down at the infant—now fast asleep—in his arms, and thought of the newborn prince upstairs, and wondered silently to himself if the constellations really connect people as strongly as they say.  


 

❧

  
  
“Gwaine!” Merlin felt his voice crack after what must have been his fiftieth time shouting. It was a beautiful day in Lothian for the first time in months, and morning dew was soaking through his new boots (he kept outgrowing them). He turned his head this way and that, with a keen eye for any sign of a curled head.  
  
His efforts paid off—he saw, for a split second, a flash of brunet before it disappeared behind a tree.  
  
“Gwaine!” Merlin growled, now full of righteous fury, as he stomped towards the copse of trees that signalled the entry into the forest. “You’re skipping your tutoring again, aren’t you? Geoffrey’ll be furious—”  
  
“Shhh!” A hand grabbed onto the sleeve of his oversized tunic and pulled him into a crouch behind the thick trunk. Merlin and Gwaine, two ten-year-old boys that combined wouldn’t be much heavier than a hay bale, disappeared from the sight of the castle completely. “What are you trying at, Merlin? Getting me hanged?”  
  
Merlin felt a small pain in his chest at the mere claim of disloyalty. He yanked his sleeve free of Gwaine’s grasp. “Of course not. If anyone’s getting hanged, it’s me. Your father told me to watch you today.”  
  
Gwaine snorted. “Of course he did! Because he knows what beautiful weather does to me.” He took a deep breath of forest air and closed his eyes. “Don’t you smell that, Merlin?”  
  
“Smell what?” said Merlin, voice laced with skepticism.  
  
“Spring! Hope! _Rebirth_.” Gwaine sang the last word before falling back into the grass.  
  
Merlin couldn’t help but smile, just a little bit. “Have you been at the poetry again?”  
  
“Those troubadours are geniuses. They really are.” Gwaine sat up suddenly, his brown eyes sparkling, his mouth stretched into a wide grin. “I have a surprise for you, Merlin.”  
  
Merlin’s heart dropped into his stomach. “A surprise?”  
  
“But you’ll have to follow me.”  
  
Gwaine gestured his head into the forest, and the bad feeling that had overtook Merlin at the mention of surprise soured further. His mouth tightened.  
  
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” he said firmly. “We’re going back to the library. Now.”  
  
“You’re going to regret _it_ ,” Gwaine said, stretching the last word into a musical note. He was never the least bit threatened by Merlin’s dark looks.  
  
Merlin glanced from Gwaine’s eager face to the castle and back again. It always felt like he had been born with the world on his shoulders, but he was still a ten-year-old boy, after all.  
  
Gwaine noticed the hesitation.  
  
“I think you might find it quite…” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “ _magical_.”  
  
Merlin took a sharp intake of breath; Gwaine, Gaius, and his mother were the only people in the kingdom who knew he could do magic, even if at the moment all he could do was move small rocks around with his mind. Gwaine had already been friends with him when he found him focusing on pebbles in a corner of the courtyard. Since then, he had been enamoured with Merlin’s gift, making them closer than ever before.  
  
“What do you mean?” said Merlin, also whispering, his heart hammering against his ribcage.  
  
Gwaine, seeing that he was going to get his way, grinned wider, winked, and took off into the forest.  
  
“Gw—!” Merlin clapped a hand over his mouth before he could alert anyone to the prince’s whereabouts, then after a split second of hesitation, raced after him into the woods.  
  
Gwaine was fast and Merlin had never been athletic, but every now and then Gwaine would look over his shoulder, smile, and slow down, before racing off again. By the time Gwaine finally stopped in front of a giant boulder, Merlin was gasping and doubling over.  
  
“Please…please d-don’t tell me,” wheezed Merlin, wiping sweat off his forehead, “we ran all this way to see a _giant rock_?”  
  
Gwaine was still beaming. “Of course not! It’s what’s _in_ the rock.”  
  
Merlin, too weary to argue, walked over to the crack of the boulder and squinted in. He was thin and lanky—“like someone grabbed onto your ears and your toes and stretched you out,” his mom often said—but even then it would be a tight fit.  
  
“How are we possibly going to get in here?” asked Merlin as he was already trying to fit himself through the opening. The stone was cold and wet against his open palms.  
  
“That’s why we ran! To lose the extra weight!”  
  
“Ha, ha.”  
  
Merlin was thinner than he thought—the sideways walk in wasn’t as bad as he had imagined. Soon enough he and Gwaine were in a wide tunnel, and he could see light emanating in the near distance.  
  
But what kind of light was blue…?  
  
“Come on.” Gwaine took Merlin’s hand and charged forward. The tunnel kept widening, and the light grew bigger and brighter, until they were in an open cavern that—and Merlin audibly gasped—was filled, top to bottom, with tall, glowing blue crystals.  
  
“What…?” said Merlin, but the words died in his mouth. He could only stare, slack-jawed, at the inexorable beauty surrounding him. These crystals shouldn’t be glowing without the sun hitting them, and yet they were. Gwaine had been right—this was undoubtedly, spectacularly, the work of magic.  
  
“What do you think it is, Merlin? Who do you think owns it? Witches? Druids? Fairies? My bet’s on fairies. Agravaine says they do all sorts of crazy things…” Gwaine may have been babbling, but Merlin could see that he was waiting fervently for his reaction. He sent the prince a warm smile.  
  
“I don’t think anyone owns it,” he said. He closed his eyes and breathed. The air tasted supernaturally sweet and pure. “It feels older than all of that.”  
  
Merlin opened his eyes to see Gwaine staring at him with rare intensity. He quickly looked away, feeling a little embarrassed at how strange he must have sounded, and caught his eye on a particularly large, round crystal that seemed to be smoky instead of a beaming cerulean like the rest of them. Cautiously, he approached, his throat oddly tight, the cavern eerily quiet—for a moment, it felt like he was alone. The smoke was swirling inside the crystal…he could see that now, and it was forming images…he squinted to make them clearer…  
  
It was him. Taller, older, dressed all in white. A man was approaching, emerging from the smoke…he was also clothed in white, a large crown on his head…  
  
_Gwaine?_ Merlin’s heart gave a hopeful jump, but the longer he looked, the blonder the man became…  
  
“Merlin?” Gwaine’s hand on his shoulder made him jump about two feet in the air, the yelp that escaped him echoing all around the chamber, so loud it felt like the crystals should be trembling in the ground. Gwaine released him instantly, looking startled and guilty as Merlin whirled around to face him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. You were acting weird…”  
  
Merlin shook his head, his mop of unruly black hair falling into his eyes. “M-My mistake, I thought I saw something.”  
  
“Saw something?” Merlin regretted his choice of words as he saw the crease of concern appear on Gwaine’s young brow.  
  
“Nothing! It wasn’t anything.” He was feeling strange, as if he had seen something he wasn’t supposed to. And further, that he had forgotten Gwaine was with him for a moment.  
  
Gwaine looked at him a bit longer before choosing to forget it. Merlin could tell by the way his lips turned up back into his natural smile and his eyes darted around the cave.  
  
“So…do you like it? I couldn’t believe my luck when I found it.”  
  
“It’s…pretty amazing,” Merlin admitted. He still felt a little light-headed.  
  
“As soon as I saw this place, I knew I needed to show you,” said Gwaine, speaking faster now as he gained enthusiasm. “It just screams _Merlin_ , you know? It just…” He scratched the back of his head. “These crystals are the exact colour of your eyes.”  
  
Merlin could feel a blush starting all the way from the tips of his toes. He couldn’t help the nervous smile that spread on his face, or the tips of his ears turning red—he turned away to look back at the large crystal again, but all he could see in its reflection was Gwaine.  
  
Just Gwaine.  


 

❧

  
  
The month the plague hit was the worst of Merlin’s life. But it was far, far worse for Gwaine.  
  
Merlin stood on his tiptoes on a wobbly stool, craning his neck to try to see the square from Gaius’s small office window. All he could see was the orange sandstone of the castle architecture. He could hear only vague murmuring, but maybe if he closed his eyes and listened very, very hard…  
  
“Merlin!” Gaius’s voice in his ear caused Merlin to immediately lose his balance. He came crashing to the ground, butt first, and knocked over a basket of herbs while he was at it.  
  
“Why are you yelling like that?” Merlin moaned, rubbing his rear end. Gaius looked far from sympathetic. He glared at Merlin as he leaned over to start gathering the herbs from the floor.  
  
“Lord Agravaine ordered for the funeral to be attended only by close family, and it is our duty to respect their privacy.”  
  
“I just don’t think that’s fair,” said Merlin, purpling, the words he had held in all week coming out in a rush. “People have a right to say goodbye. They were our king and queen, for the gods’ sake! And I…I knew them too!”  
  
The last words he remembered the king speaking to him were from behind a curtain, but they echoed in his mind everyday. He wished he had pulled back that curtain, looked him in the eyes, and sworn…  
  
“That’s enough, Merlin,” Gaius’s voice was soft and trembling. He was still crouched on the floor, but his hands had stopped his gathering. “Enough.”  
  
Merlin thought to how many years of trusted service Gaius had given the royal couple—how once a month, even, the queen would breeze through the door to have a friendly chat on the benefits of lavender; how the king to his last breath vouched for Gaius being the best physician in all the realms; how they had died under his care…  
  
“Gaius,” he said, reaching a hand out and placing it delicately on Gaius’s back, “I’m sorry, I spoke out of line. I’m just worried about Gwaine.”  
  
“I know you are, dear boy,” said Gaius, standing up, putting the herbs back in the basket, and discretely wiping at his eyes. “I am too. But unfortunately all we can do now is wait.”  
  
“I just wish I could be with him. Or at least know how he’s doing…” Merlin looked at the window longingly. “Agravaine’s not exactly the touchy-feely type.”  
  
Gaius gave him The Look. “That poor boy has the whole kingdom on his shoulders now. I don’t want another word against him.” He ladled something light brown and distinctly unseasoned into a bowl. “Now eat your gruel and be quiet.”  
  
The minutes seemed like years. Merlin began tapping his foot on the floor, his fingers shaking against his knees. He stood up and paced; Gaius passed him a broom and he started to haphazardly sweep, redoing the same areas at least six times. The sun started streaming through the window as dusk passed into midmorning. Merlin could still hear the sounds of rustling from the square.  
  
The broom fell to the floor with a clang. Gaius raised his eyebrows behind his spectacles, one hand splayed over an open tome.  
  
“I can’t stand it anymore, Gaius! I have to see him,” Merlin shouted, tearing on his jacket as he approached the door with wide strides. “I’ll just be a minute, you can ground me later, I’ll even do chamber pot duty—”  
  
His words were cut short as he threw open the door and found Gwaine slumped against the wall outside. His long brown hair was concealing his face, his chin against his chest. His shoulders, much broader than Merlin’s now at sixteen, shook as if under a great weight.  
  
“Gwaine,” Merlin breathed, when he could find his voice again. “I was just…I thought you were…how long have you been here?”  
  
Gwaine shook his head for a long minute before saying, “I couldn’t do it, Merlin. Not alone.” He looked up, finally, his hair falling back from his face to reveal red-brimmed eyes and tear tracks, a mouth made to smile in a tight grimace. At the expression on Merlin’s face, his bottom lip trembled. “I don’t…” He couldn’t finish the thought, instead emitting a rattling breath and looking back at the ground.  
  
That was the moment when Gwaine broke. Merlin saw the second it happened; his face seemed to crack and a raw sob escaped as his shoulders pitched forward—instantly Merlin had his arms around him, supporting his entire weight. Gwaine had always been the stronger of the two of them, but Merlin willed his body to be a pillar. He found himself crying in tune with Gwaine’s sobs, but he ignored his own tears as he tried his best to completely envelop the shaking prince before him.  
  
He brushed back Gwaine’s hair with his fingers and whispered into his temple, “You’re not alone. I’m here.” He didn’t resist as Gwaine pulled him closer and buried his face in his neck. He repeated, “I’m here.”  
  
And in his head he swore to the gods, as he had to Gwaine’s father, _I’ll always be here._  


 

❧

  
  
Merlin was standing in a forest glade, the treetops so thick that only patches of sunlight could make it through the leaves. The air smelled so sweet and clean that he closed his eyes and tried to imprint this exact moment in his memory.  
  
With his eyes closed, he could hear more clearly—what he had thought were the rustles of leaves were starting to sound more and more like people whispering. He opened his eyes and looked around, and could see eyes—bodiless eyes—staring from the shadows of the bushes. He started stepping backwards; he looked down at himself to make sure he wasn’t naked—he was dressed head-to-toe in white silk. His heart was beating so fast; he felt a wave of nausea hit him as he felt the weight of all their stares.  
  
A hand slipped into his, and as if sunshine had been injected into his bloodstream, he immediately returned to his original state of serenity. He closed his fingers tightly around the hand and turned to smile at the blond man behind him…  
  
“Merlin! Wake up!”  
  
Merlin groaned and buried his face in his pillow, trying desperately to fall back to sleep and envision the forest. Especially the man—he wanted to will his face to mind…  
  
A much rougher hand pulled at his shoulder. “ _Merlin_. You’re going to be late, for the umpteenth time!”  
  
Merlin released a defeated sigh and sat up, rubbing at his eyes. Now that he was awake, he could hear birds chirping obnoxiously right outside his closet-sized bedroom. Gaius glared down at him in blatant disapproval, arms crossed.  
  
“Honestly, Merlin,” he chastised, “I know Gwaine is a very forgiving master, but this is just getting ridiculous. And you know Agravaine runs a tight ship.”  
  
“Did you give him tips?” Merlin snapped as he rolled out from under the sheets. He wished fervently that it was midafternoon, and that he was in the forest with a handsome man. He started searching his floor for a cleanish tunic. “I had that weird dream again.”  
  
“The one with the unicorn?” said Gaius in a disinterested tone. “I’ve told you, Merlin, young warlocks get those all the time…”  
  
“No. The one with the blond man,” he said. He turned to see that Gaius was now looking much more alert. “I was wearing white and in a forest again. But this time…” He swallowed as the memory came back. “There were all these people. Watching us.”  
  
“Hmm…” Gaius rubbed absent-mindedly at his chin. “That is somewhat concerning. These dreams have been going on for what now? Six years?”  
  
“Eight,” said Merlin firmly, pulling on his socks. He could remember the crystal cave as if it was yesterday.  
  
“Maybe that’s why you’ve been oversleeping so much lately. I could make you a strong sleep aid.”  
  
“No, Gaius, they’re not nightmares. I just oversleep because I’m irresponsible.” He wrapped his scarf around his neck and turned to grin at his frowning uncle before leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “Well, I’m off.”  
  
“Don’t get into any mischief!” called Gaius after him as he slammed the door shut.  


 

❧

  
  
Merlin kicked the door open with his heel as he strode into Gwaine’s chambers with a tray. The rich purple curtains were still closed, cloaking the room in darkness. Merlin set the tray down on the desk and opened the curtains.  
  
“Sir Ga- _waine_ ,” he sang, stretching out the last syllable, making his way to the bed, “’tis morning, sire.”  
  
“So ’tis, my dearest Merlin,” responded from Gwaine, who was merely a giant lump under the covers, the same way he had for the past three years, “so ’tis.”  
  
At first, the lump did not move at all. And then, all at once, Gwaine sat up, throwing the covers off him in one swift movement. Gwaine’s hair, now long and unruly in adulthood, was standing up at all ends. Merlin smiled affectionately at him and immediately offered a steaming cup of coffee.  
  
“Good morning,” he said.  
  
“Now it is,” Gwaine replied, his lips curling into a warm grin, as he accepted the cup and wafted its scent towards him with a satisfying sigh. “What would I do without you?”  
  
“Probably the same as you do now,” Merlin quipped. “The real question is what you would do without coffee.”  
  
“No, the real question is what I would do without ale.”  
  
Merlin snorted as he handed him the outfit he had laid out last night. It was a simple black tunic with a deep plunge. Almost all of Gwaine’s shirts had deep plunges. Merlin knew that this was his preferred fashion because people could see more of his muscle-toned knight body. Gwaine would walk around shirtless if Agravaine would allow it.  
  
“Are you headed to the tavern tonight?” Merlin asked as Gwaine made his way to his desk, eyeing breakfast hungrily. Gwaine spent most of his nights there, drinking and making much merriment with his knights. Both of them had been scolded many a time over the activities they got up to there.  
  
“No, but I might need to start drinking right away,” Gwaine said, expression suddenly souring. “Agravaine asked to meet with me today.”  
  
Merlin grimaced in empathy. Gwaine had three brothers, of which Agravaine, the oldest, was by far the most unpleasant. He had become king at eighteen and was very strict and by the books. He also, Merlin surmised, was secretly resentful of all his brothers, who had inherited their mother’s good looks, whereas he appeared prematurely aged, straight-haired, and dull-eyed.  
  
It was also a secret to no one in the kingdom of Lothian that King Agravaine hated his second brother most of all. The two could not be more different—Gwaine was adventurous, romantic, and athletic; Agravaine was cold, conniving, and introverted—and Gwaine, who was always out and about, had the deepest impact on the civilian population, which enraged the king to no end. He always lectured Gwaine to be more responsible—which sometimes Merlin secretly agreed with—and put more severe limitations on what the crown prince should be able to do. Most of the time, Gwaine put all his efforts into being captain of the knights, training, and military strategy. The knights’ loyalty to him never failed to make Merlin feel warm and secure in his duties.  
  
Merlin looked down at Gwaine as he sawed through a pancake, brown eyes agleam, his sharp nose and cheekbones highlighted flatteringly by the light streaming through the windowpane. Across the kingdom, people were also always gossiping about how Prince Gwaine was the handsomest man in Lothian, probably Britain. He allowed his eyes to drift down Gwaine’s curls, turned honey from the sun, the light smattering of freckles just under his eyes, the tanned skin on his arms. This also, Merlin was sure, made Agravaine’s eye twitch…  
  
“Here.” Gwaine held a pancake aloft on a fork, almost thrusting it onto Merlin’s nose. “You keep staring like that and I’m worried you’ll try to eat _me_.”  
  
Merlin blushed and accepted the pancake, turning away. Luckily Gwaine had misread his gaze to be lusting after his breakfast, but he cursed himself for getting carried away. Gwaine was off-limits for an almost limitless amount of reasons, and their friendship was too old to deal with questions like “what are we?” But sometimes Merlin let himself be pulled by ages old confusing feelings that refused to die.  
  
He cleared his throat. “So what does the king want?”  
  
“Who knows,” replied Gwaine in a dead tone. “Probably just wants to get a bit of nagging done to start his day. You think Gareth will come with me if I beg?”  
  
Merlin’s lips quirked into a smile. Gareth was Gwaine’s youngest and favourite brother. He had only just become a squire and spent all of his time idolizing the other knights, Gwaine most of all.  
  
“I’m sure he would follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked him to,” Merlin said, starting to dust the wardrobe.  
  
“Tempting,” said Gwaine sorrowfully.  
  
“I could wait for you outside the room,” suggested Merlin with a hopeful lilt, “if you want.”  
  
Gwaine’s grin was all the permission he needed.  


 

❧

  
  
Merlin tapped the toes of his boots against the tile floor, letting his mind wander into a fog. It had been about two hours since Gwaine had entered Agravaine’s chambers, and Merlin was starting to suspect that it wasn’t a bit of nagging as Gwaine had suggested. He gave a sideways glance to the burly guards on either side of the door, who glowered down at him. He quickly adjusted his gaze back down to his feet. He was very, very lucky he was the crown prince’s manservant, he thought—he was sure he would have been tossed on his rear end in a hot second if not for that mitigating factor.  
  
There had actually been a lot of suffering that had been alleviated by Gwaine making him his manservant. The prince had been reluctant at first, insisting that they were friends and thus equals, but Merlin had said that this was the best way to stay together as they grew older. Merlin had always feared a growing distance between him and Gwaine, partially for selfish reasons and partially in the interest of protecting the prince. After Gwaine’s parents had died, Merlin was certain this was what he had been put on the world to do. Being a servant was his job, but being Gwaine’s guardian was his duty. Agravaine, though his elder, never acted in Gwaine’s best interests, and so Merlin had claimed that role for himself.  
  
Merlin smiled as he recalled the words Gwaine had said just this morning.  
  
_What would I do without you?_  
  
Muffled yelling from inside the king’s chambers caused Merlin to jolt upright. The guards, too, looked alert. Merlin could tell it was Gwaine’s voice that was doing the shouting—he strained to make out the words…  
  
“—own me!” Gwaine shouted as he burst through the doors, causing Merlin and the guards to all lurch. From behind the door, a hand reached out to his arm, and Gwaine pulled roughly away. “Don’t you dare touch me!”  
  
Merlin’s eyes widened and he rushed towards Gwaine. Although he had heard enough of Gwaine’s rants to know he and Agravaine weren’t close, he had always at the very least been respectful of his brother’s rank, and never made a public scene.  
  
Agravaine was wearing the expression of a man who was desperately trying to mask his enjoyment with solemnity.  
  
“You’re understandably upset,” he said in a level tone that made Merlin’s skin crawl. “Give it a day to think it over and calm down, and we’ll talk then.”  
  
“ _Calm down_?” Gwaine visibly bristled, but he looked from Merlin to the guards and clenched his hands into fists. “As you wish, _Your Highness_ ,” he hissed, and then quickly turned on his heel and walked away.  
  
Merlin stared at his back, aghast for a moment, and then looked over at Agravaine, who smirked with a polite nod, which Merlin shakily returned, before running after the prince.  
  
“Gwaine!” he shouted, a passing maid jumping at the sudden noise. “Gwaine, wait!”  
  
Gwaine was so fast that even Merlin with his longer legs had a tough time catching up to him. His curled head was turned very deliberately away from Merlin’s line of sight.  
  
“Gwaine, what’s wrong?” Merlin asked, a little out of breath as he struggled to keep pace. “Don’t do this. Please—”  
  
Gwaine started walking faster, and Merlin drew to a halt with a frustrated groan. He knew he shouldn’t do this—especially in the morning of a busy castle, of all places—but last resorts were sometimes necessary. He raised his hand and muttered, “ _Mur drain_.” The bricks of the corridor started turning inward, creating a dead end to block Gwaine’s path. The effect was instantaneous—Gwaine was so surprised he stumbled backwards and gripped the wall to stop himself from collapsing.  
  
“Talk,” said Merlin, his voice a command.  
  
Gwaine turned on him, his face twisted in anger. “Have you lost your mind? What if someone sees you?” He pointed at the magic wall. “Fix this _right now_.”  
  
“Only if you talk,” said Merlin, unrelenting. He crossed his arms and tried to come across as disinterested in the matter entirely. In reality, his heart was hammering so hard against his ribcage he could hardly breathe. But he had sworn an oath to be there for Gwaine, even in his hardest moments.  
  
Gwaine suddenly seized his hand and pulled him forward. The unexpected momentum caused Merlin to be nose to nose with a very furious prince.  
  
“Fine, if you insist,” Gwaine hissed through his teeth. “We’ll talk in my chambers. Now take down this _bloody_ wall, you crazy warlock bastard.”  
  
Merlin had to fight very hard to keep himself from laughing—Gwaine’s expression of petulance hadn’t changed since they were children. But Gwaine was gripping his hand very hard and Merlin remembered how upset he was, so the initial giddy feeling subsided as he lifted his free hand and muttered, “ _Daeargryn_.” The bricks trembled furiously before flying back to where they belonged. Surging forward, Gwaine forced Merlin to walk at his pace. Only a couple minutes later did Merlin hear Gwaine mutter, “Where the hell did you even learn that?”  
  
When they got to Gwaine’s chambers, he ushered Merlin inside and closed then locked the door. Merlin watched as Gwaine strode over to the window, latching it shut and pulling the curtains closed, once again submerging them in darkness.  
  
“I know I don’t have to advise discretion with you,” said Gwaine, in a tone so serious that Merlin had never heard it from him before. He felt his skin erupt into goose bumps but stayed silent as Gwaine’s silhouette sighed heavily and slumped against the edge of the desk. After a long moment of heavy quiet Gwaine said, “It appears that my reaching adulthood has finally given Agravaine the incentive he needed.”  
  
Merlin blinked. He and Gwaine had just turned eighteen last month. There was much fanfare in the streets over the crown prince’s coming-of-age, but Gwaine had surprised Merlin in the evening with a cake, which they ate slowly while reminiscing about the years that had passed until the sun had come up.  
  
“The incentive to do what?” Merlin asked cautiously, dreading the answer. He watched as Gwaine picked up one of the many fidgety baubles he kept by his inkwell and examined it with glazed eyes.  
  
“To finally get rid of me,” he said in a toneless voice. Merlin blanched.  
  
“What do you mean? What happened?” He felt cold, as if all the blood had been drained from his body, leaving him with nothing but bones and fragile skin.  
  
Gwaine set down the bauble and folded his hands in his lap, before meeting Merlin’s eyes with a startlingly soft gaze.  
  
“Agravaine,” he said gently, “has arranged to have me marry Prince Arthur of Camelot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This AU is based very roughly on the Chrétien de Troyes Arthurian universe, which has Gwaine as one of the many sons of King Lot, king of Lothian (and Orkney). This version of Agravaine is basically a combination between the two.
> 
> Please accept Gareth as my child. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, again. ♥ Please comment if intrigued.


	2. Drawsnewid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm strangely into Merlin/Gwaine now that I've started writing it, but no fear! I have no greater dedication than to the endlessly painful pairing of Merlin/Arthur.
> 
> General PSA: I am really bad at geography and have no grasp on Welsh whatsoever, so the details are all a bit...sketch. Ahaha.

Merlin was running, running harder than he had ever run before—his lungs felt like they were giving out, his knees could buckle any moment, but he knew he couldn’t stop. The wind rushed through his ears; underbrush gave way under the force of his boots.

“ _Gwaine!_ ” he shrieked louder than he had ever yelled. The trees shook, scattering his vision with leaves. He put up his arms to shield him from them. “ _Gwaine!_ ”

He ran, and suddenly crashed headlong into a stone statue. His ears rang and his teeth clenched as pain travelled from his head throughout all his nerves. He fell to his knees, and his fingernails, expecting to find rough grit beneath it, instead found smooth silk.

“Gwaine?” he breathed. His voice sounded different—deeper, and hoarse. A hand, warm and fleshy and not at all stone-like, ran over his hair. He looked up, slowly and fearfully, at the face above him, and saw a silhouette haloed by the sun in brilliant gold.

In his other hand, the golden man held a crown aloft, and Merlin’s insides twisted when he realized it was for him, not…

“Gwaine!” Merlin sat up, his sheets and thin wool mattress soaked in cold sweat. His hand clawed at his chest, and he let out a dry sob as he pitched forward so that his head was positioned against the mattress. His breath, coming in short gasps, spurred on a blooming headache.

Were the dreams getting more vivid? And, he admitted, scarier?

His hands shook as he climbed out of bed. It was no wonder he was having nightmares—soon Gwaine, the man he cared for more than himself, would be married to a man he had never met. Merlin had always known this day would come and had been mentally preparing himself since his teen years, but he always thought it would be to a woman, who would then come to Lothian and add to their lives, not take away. But it seemed that this was not all the dynamic of the situation.

_“Arthur is King Uther’s only son, and is due to be king soon. This means he can’t leave Camelot.”_

_“So…you have to leave Lothian?”_

_“It would seem so.”_

Merlin’s eyes stung with tears that he didn’t even bother to wipe away. He had always thought happily of his future with Gwaine—decades of dedicated service and treasured friendship, in battle, in the tavern, in court; memories in a distant tomorrow made with knights, nobles, and just the two of them. He thought of the knights who had served Gwaine for years and sworn blood oaths to him; he thought of his younger brothers and his friends; he thought of Gwaine all alone in a cold castle miles from everyone he knew. Miles from him.

Merlin scowled and wiped roughly at his tears with his sleeve, leaving red patches on his skin. Crying would do no good. Crying wouldn’t help Gwaine.

He swung himself out of bed and into his slippers, grabbing a cloak and pulling it over his sleepwear. He opened his bedroom door and was startled to find all the candles lit, and Gaius writing carefully with a quill.

“W-What are you still doing awake?” Merlin stuttered, surprised into being defensive.

“I could ask you the same question,” said Gaius, not looking up at him. Merlin flushed and looked down at the floorboards. “Were you planning on going somewhere?”

Merlin lowered his voice to a murmur. “I was going to see Gwaine.”

“Ah.” Gaius set his quill back in his inkwell and turned to look at Merlin over his spectacles with crossed hands. “I heard about the engagement.”

Merlin jolted and looked up at him, blue eyes wide in amazement. “You did? How? He only found out today.”

“It is hard to keep anything hidden from staff murmurings,” he said resignedly. “It also is in Agravaine’s best interest that people know. It gives Gwaine less opportunity to refuse.”

“Oh.” Merlin looked down again, trying not let show how much anger was coursing through him at Gaius’s calm reasoning. He clenched his fists and dug his fingernails deep into his palms.

“Merlin.” Gaius’s voice brought him back to the present, and he quickly blinked away hot tears. “Would you like to talk?” 

Gaius patted the stool beside him in invitation, and Merlin writhed at the thought of losing time he could be spending with Gwaine. But he had a lot of questions, some he felt uncomfortable asking Gwaine. He walked slowly over and slid onto the stool. Gaius didn’t say anything, but looked expectantly at him.

“Who is Arthur?” he asked. He spit the name out as if it was poison to say.

“Arthur Pendragon is the only son of Uther Pendragon, destined to inherit the recently prospering kingdom of Camelot,” explained Gaius patiently. “It’s a very nice place—plenty of scenery and unusual creatures.”

“And Arthur? Is he nice?” Merlin prompted, his fingers curling around his seat.

“I’ve only heard good things,” Gaius said, his voice consoling.

Merlin’s heartbeat increased in speed and forced the next question out of his mouth before he could reconsider, “Why would Agravaine want Gwaine to marry a man? I didn’t even know that could happen.”

Gaius took a moment to think about this, looking up at the ceiling as he calculated the best way to answer the question.

“It happened a lot, in the olden days,” he said finally, his voice filled with nostalgia. “The druids approved of same-sex marriage. They believed it to be a spiritual bond natural to the laws of nature. And it was the obvious answer to simply acquiesce when two people fell in love. The druids knew that forced silence was not the way to build a healthy society.” Gaius paused and considered his next words carefully. “The tradition of uniting two men in a bond of the soul is called Bràthair. It has been used very sparsely by the new monarchies over the years. But Agravaine has reinstituted this ceremony, presumably because it secures Lothian more land and allies, and also because it means Gwaine will not produce any heirs.” He frowned disapprovingly at this but offered no further comment, instead choosing to absentmindedly smooth the parchment he had been writing on. 

“That’s awful!” Merlin could not sit in silence even though that was clearly what Gaius intended to do. “He’s doing this so he can end Gwaine’s line and kick him out of the kingdom! We have to do something, Gaius. Maybe…go to Camelot and explain—”

Gaius’s head snapped up at this, his frown deepening. “I know Gwaine is important to you, and you’re allowed to feel as you wish about the king’s decision, but do not get involved, Merlin. King Uther is very harsh on magic-users, much harsher than Agravaine, and the last thing Gwaine needs is a secret warlock speaking out on his behalf.”

Merlin bit his lip and kicked at the table leg. “I can’t just sit here, Gaius. I won’t be able to.”

Gaius laid his aged, sunspotted hand over Merlin’s. “And yet, dear boy, that is exactly what you must do.”

❧

Merlin stumbled as he carried Gwaine’s dirty clothes over to the laundry. There were more of them than usual, and they smelled particularly rank after Gwaine had started nonstop vicious training to escape from his problems. He had a lot of work ahead of him today, and in a way Merlin was grateful for the physical exertion as it allowed his mind to at least temporarily go blissfully blank. 

He kicked open the door to the laundry to find Guinevere, the castle seamstress, bent over some red cloth, which she seemed to be cleaning of excess dye. The large water basin had turn an unpleasant bloody colour. 

“Oh! It’s you, Merlin.” She smiled at him as always, but her large doe eyes were filled with sympathy. Gaius was right—there were no secrets from the help. “I’m so sorry about Gwaine. So, so sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Merlin mumbled, torn between being courteous and running from this conversation at top speed. He bent over and looked into the red water, where he could just barely make out his reflection—his large, gawky ears and pouty lips were instantly recognizable, but everything else was obscure. 

“Do you want to…I mean, how is…are you okay?” Guinevere finally stuttered out, freckled cheeks turning a deep pink. Merlin managed to send her a small smile. They had initially bonded over their shared awkwardness, and now he liked her company for her sincerity.

“I haven’t accepted it yet,” he admitted. He dipped a finger into the tepid water.

“Right? It doesn’t feel real,” Guinevere agreed. “I imagine it will take quite a bit of time for everyone to get used to the idea.”

Merlin wasn’t planning on getting used to the idea, but he decided not to tell that to Guinevere, who wasn’t quite at confidante status yet. Deciding to change the topic, he pulled his finger out of the water and noticed that the tip of it had, indeed, turned a light pink. 

“When do you reckon you’ll be done washing up, Gwen? I don’t think Gwaine would appreciate it much if all his armour turned varying shades of magenta.”

Gwen got a little flustered again. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Merlin! I was only requested by the king to dye this tablecloth red this morning, and it’s near impossible to get it the right shade. I’ve been pigmenting and rinsing since I got up.” 

“Why’s the colour of a tablecloth such urgent business?” he asked, staring at the mass of linen just under the surface of the water. 

Gwen’s wide eyes managed to get even wider. 

“Oh, Merlin. Don’t tell me you didn’t know? Red is Camelot’s colour.” 

❧

Merlin slammed both of Gwaine’s chamber doors open—he could feel magic propelling gusts from his palms, just barely under his control. He was shaking; he couldn’t remember walking up the six flights of stairs that separated the royal quarters from the servants’—for all he knew, he had teleported, leaving a shocked Guinevere with a basket of smelly armour. 

Gwaine was seated at his desk, scribbling quite calmly on a piece of parchment. He didn’t even look up as Merlin burst in. 

“Arthur’s coming here?” Merlin asked in a quiet voice, still framed in the entranceway. Gwaine continued to write, apparently unperturbed.

“Yes. He should be here in a few days.” His quill suddenly hesitated over a word, and shaking his head he scribbled it out. 

Merlin’s arm shot out and both inkwell and quill went flying across the room, smashing into the wall opposite and leaving a dripping black mark on the sandstone. 

Gwaine stared at the ink sliding down the wall. “Well, that was unnecessary.”

“Look at me!” Merlin shouted. Gwaine slowly acquiesced, his eyes sliding over to meet the warlock’s, which were already—humiliatingly—brimming with tears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s royal business,” Gwaine responded coolly, sinking lower into his chair. 

Merlin’s laugh came out more like a choked back sob. “‘Royal business’? Since when was that part of your vocabulary?” He felt like his friendship with Gwaine was flashing before his eyes—he could see Gwaine cherubic at six, mischievous at ten, and already chiselled at sixteen. He blinked back his tears to focus on the man who now sat before him, looking hollow and resigned. “After all we’ve been through, don’t you think I at least have the right to know that your…your… _future husband_ is coming for a visit?” 

Gwaine’s hands slammed down on his desk and he rose to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor with a sharp squeal. He came around the desk to approach Merlin, who had started shivering in earnest, biting his lip to try to hold back the tidal wave of anger and betrayal that was thrashing inside of him. 

Gwaine gripped the sides of Merlin’s arms with an easy strength, as if anticipating a collapse.

“Merlin, listen to me. That man will never be my husband.” Merlin’s eyelids fluttered open, his gaze drifting downward to meet Gwaine’s, whose irises were twinkling in a comfortingly familiar way. “I didn’t tell you he was coming because it doesn’t matter. I was just writing my farewell when you barged in here like a rhinoceros…” He reached out behind him and grabbed the parchment from the desk, holding it out to Merlin like a peace offering.

Merlin felt his stomach lurch. A farewell? He snatched the parchment from Gwaine’s hand and quickly scanned it.

_Dearest brother,_

_This may be the last time you ever hear from me. (I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to know that.) I know you had great things planned for me, but I didn’t live my life with the intention of being the king of Camelot’s trophy husband. I was never great at letting you win, and my coming-of-age hasn’t changed that, at least._

_I hope in my absence you treat your subjects better than you treated me. Our parents would have never wanted you to become a tyrant. If you have any love in your heart for me at all, at least promise me you’ll take care of—_

The last word had been scribbled over several times, now a blotch of illegibility. But Merlin was too outraged to even care about that. He shoved the parchment with all of his strength into Gwaine’s chest, who barely took a step back.

“What the hell is this?” he growled. “You’re leaving, just like that?”

“Just like that,” nodded Gwaine. It was only then that Merlin noticed their proximity, Gwaine so close to him that he could smell his hair (it always, without fail, had an oaky scent). Merlin felt so suddenly how small the two of them were in the scheme of the large castle, the kingdom of grass plains and islands, the world. He thought how much smaller he would be without Gwaine next to him. 

The hot magic he had felt burning underneath his skin faded to a dull ache, and he reached out a trembling hand to Gwaine’s cheek, something he had always thought about but never done. Gwaine leaned slightly into the touch, his breath warm against Merlin’s fingers. 

“You can’t go,” whispered Merlin.

“What’s the alternative?” Gwaine’s voice was raspy with barely concealed frustration. “Marry some stranger?” 

“At least you wouldn’t be an exile then,” said Merlin, biting his lip. He did not say, _at least you could come back_ , or, _maybe you could take me with you_ , but they were chief in his mind. 

Gwaine’s hand came up from his side and gripped Merlin’s, still resting against his cheekbone. He glared up at Merlin with sudden ferocity. 

“Is that what you want, Merlin?” he demanded. “For me to marry Arthur? Move to Camelot? Live happily ever after?” He tightened his grip, pressing Merlin’s fingers to the side of his face. “Is that really what you want?”

Merlin’s heart started thudding wildly in his chest and his mouth went dry. He stared into Gwaine’s fierce brown eyes—he knew them so well he could have drawn them blindfolded—and he felt like he was falling down a dark pit, so deep and cavernous he would not be able to escape.

He let his hand go limp in Gwaine’s.

“There must be another way,” he said finally. Gwaine looked at him for a long moment before dropping his hand and pulling away.

“There _is_ no other way. I’ve been checkmated.” He rubbed wearily at his face, then paced over to the window. “Agravaine has many faults, but he’s a great chess player. He can predict every move I make. The only way he doesn’t get everything he wants is if I disappear altogether. Then at least he doesn’t have Camelot.” He gave a sour smirk. “And control over my lineage.”

Merlin felt sick. If Agravaine was really worried about the throne falling to Gwaine and his successors, he was sure that he wouldn’t just accept his brother vanishing into the night. He imagined search parties and bounty hunters combing the countryside for any sign of the prince. The entire strategy was too dangerous. 

But he agreed with Gwaine—going through with the wedding was definitely not an option.

He shook his head and curled his hand into a fist. “You’re wrong. Agravaine doesn’t know everything.”

Gwaine turned around to see Merlin’s eyes glowing a bright gold. 

❧

The candle’s flame flickered, dangerously close to vanishing into the puddle of wax—all that remained after two nights straight of research. Merlin distractedly pointed a finger at the wick and whispered, “ _Fflam_.” Immediately the candle found new life and burst into a large flame, increasing the surface area of its light.

Merlin sat near the fireplace with a huge tomb titled _Strange Magiks_ open on his lap. Next to him was a stack of spell books that he had pulled up from under Gaius’s floorboards. He flipped quickly through the section on love spells—especially unhelpful in this situation—and considered a memory hex that would be able to erase a specific thought. But he shook his head after a brief consideration of the idea—even if he erased Agravaine’s memory, that wouldn’t stop Arthur’s arrival or everyone else in Camelot and Lothian remembering the engagement. He needed a longer term solution than that.

He flipped through the section on summoning mythical beasts, and made himself feel better by imagining a dragon ripping Prince Arthur limb from limb, despite knowing it was wholly unrealistic. Eventually he tossed _Strange Magiks_ aside with a sigh and looked at the waning moon through the window. Arthur would be arriving in two to three days, and he could only work on strategizing at night to avoid suspicion. If he didn’t figure something out fast, Gwaine would leave and put himself in mortal peril.

Merlin swung his arm too hard in frustration when reaching for the next book, knocking over the stack. He let out a quiet groan and glanced worriedly at Gaius, who after a moment snorted and rolled over. Breathing out slowly, he floated the candle over the books now splayed across the floor before his gaze fell on a rough-looking navy one with the word _Transfiguration_ engraved in glossy black on the cover.

Merlin’s pulse quickened.

❧

Merlin pulled the book on _Transfiguration_ out from his saddlebag and slammed it onto Gwaine’s desk, causing the prince to nearly jump out of his skin.

“Gods above! You do realize that being caught with a spell book is a capital offence, right?” cried Gwaine, clutching dramatically at his chest. 

Merlin rolled his eyes and tapped the book with this index finger. “This capital offence is our checkmate,” he said. Gwaine’s eyes gleamed and for a second it felt like they were kids again, playing pretend battle, only this time something was really on the line. He opened to the page he had marked with a ribbon. “This spell,” he said slowly, looking into Gwaine’s eyes unblinkingly to make sure he understood, “can be used to make you look like anyone you choose.”

Gwaine’s shocked gaze travelled from Merlin’s face down to the page, which had an illustration of a face, half young woman, half bearded old man. He shuddered.

“And why in seven hells is this our checkmate?” he asked, already cringing at a mere thought of what the answer could be.

“Didn’t you tell me once that you had distant relatives in the south?” asked Merlin, fingers tapping against the desk in anticipation.

“Yes, some cousins of some removed generation,” said Gwaine suspiciously. “What of it?”

“Well,” said Merlin excitedly, “noble kin laws dictate that if a large number of kin oppose a marriage…”

“Then the marriage can be annulled,” Gwaine breathed. He was staring at Merlin as if he had never seen light before, and Merlin was the sun. “If I can reach them before Agravaine…”

“Agravaine won’t try to reach them,” said Merlin firmly, “because he won’t know you’ve left.” He tapped the book page again, and watched as Gwaine kept glancing between him and it as realization dawned on his face.

“You’re one crazy bastard,” he breathed.

Merlin grinned. “Come on now. Is that any way to address the crown prince?”

❧

It would be a long and difficult journey. Gwaine’s cousins were important aristocrats in the Kingdom of Faerie, a land so mysterious it was almost myth. Finding it on a map proved nigh impossible, but Gwaine was emboldened by the fact that he had been there with his mother when he was eight years old, and that it was just a matter of looking for clues and tapping into his childhood memories. As the plan became more set in stone, Merlin started regretting suggesting it more and more. If anything went wrong, they would both certainly be dead, and if Agravaine didn’t kill them he could imagine that getting lost in a Welsh forest or being found out by an enraged fiancé would. But as it stood, there was no other option that proved more attractive, and the mission had lit a fire in Gwaine’s belly.

“I think I’ve found it, Merlin!” Gwaine slammed a paperweight on top of a circle of forestland at the corner of a mountain range past Llyn Fae on the top map in a stack detailing routes both inside and outside Lothian.

Merlin, who had been fluffing pillows idly while staring dazedly out a window, looked down at the map and frowned. “Isn’t that way west in druid territory?”

“I think Mother may have mentioned something about having druid blood in the family. Anyway, I’m certain we passed a lake, and there were definitely mountains around. And Llyn Fae sounds familiar.”

Merlin struggled to control his dismay from showing on his face. It would take around two weeks to get there from Lothian, and who knew how long to get back. It was looking to be at least a month of fake prince time, in which case he may have been wedded and carted off to Camelot by the time Gwaine returned. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not letting anyone make you into a trophy husband,” said Gwaine in a dry voice, reading Merlin’s mind. When he looked up, Gwaine’s brown eyes were twinkling. “I’m sure you’d keep a sparkling castle, though.”

Merlin felt his cheeks redden and threw down the pillow he’d been fluffing as if it had offended him. “I didn’t realize it would be so long.”

Gwaine sighed and got up from his chair, walking over to Merlin so he could rub reassuring circles on his shoulders. “I ride like the wind, you know that. And I’m very charming. Those long-lost relatives won’t know what hit them.” 

Merlin nodded. He didn’t think he’d ever spent as much as two weeks apart from Gwaine before, and that already was enough to make him nervous. But he also trusted Gwaine’s promises, and was forced to be strong due to the lack of alternatives. He met Gwaine’s eyes as he gave a slow nod to show he was still on his side and was rewarded with a grin.

“How’s the spell coming along?” 

Merlin grimaced. The first time he had tried, he had been so weak-willed that it seemed like nothing had happened—that is, until he ran into Guinevere, who had asked in a disconcerted pitch if his eyes had always been brown; the second time, when he had willed Gwaine’s image to his mind, his hair had grown and curled with little other result—which, by the way, was a decidedly poor fashion choice for Merlin; and the third time, he had shrunk a good two inches, which had thrown off his worldview so badly he tottered around in confusion and fell down a set of stairs.

“Well…I’m improving,” he said, which was technically not a lie. 

Gwaine smiled in a knowing way, and then took a step back, gesturing forward with his hand. “Go on then.”

“What? Now?” Merlin’s voice had increased two octaves, and Gwaine laughed. 

“What better opportunity when the subject in question is right in front of you?” Gwaine turned his head in profile to reveal a sharp jawbone and flexed one arm, sending over a flirty wink. “I know it’s a lot to take in.” 

Merlin fought the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes and took a step forward. “Can I actually…?” He lifted his hands in silent question and tried to ignore the disconcerted look of surprise that fell over Gwaine’s face. “It might help.”

Gwaine let out a breath and his easy smile returned as he nodded and closed his eyes. Merlin, ignoring the quickened beating of his heart and the silence of the room that had suddenly turned into roaring in his ears, reached out and gently touched the sides of Gwaine’s face.

“Your hands are cold,” Gwaine mumbled, but stayed still as Merlin brushed his thumbs along the rough stubble on Gwaine’s cheeks. His skin felt almost inhumanly warm, and Merlin let one hand wander up to his brow and the other down to his neck. Everything felt achingly familiar from when he had touched him only a couple days ago—he watched as Gwaine relaxed and slightly leaned into Merlin’s left hand, eyes still closed; he could see as Gwaine swallowed and could feel the small hum of his contentment.

Gwaine’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze meeting Merlin’s as he took Merlin’s hand in his own, and slowly guided it down his chin, until Merlin’s thumb was running over his bottom lip. Inhaling sharply, Merlin’s brain flashed a warning to pull away, but instead he found himself moving closer, until he was looking into Gwaine’s eyes at a distance of mere centimetres. Gwaine, it occurred to him, had never been this quiet for so long—he allowed his thumb to stray over the plush lip, his other hand running from Gwaine’s neck to his chest—which was, as always, mostly exposed—and pressed his forehead to Gwaine’s, breathing in the smell of oak.

They had never been this close, never in their whole lives, and as the rational side of Merlin’s thought process left on vacation, he wondered why they hadn’t. It felt so natural—it felt, as he closed his eyes, like he was ascribing Gwaine’s every detail to memory…

“ _Drawsnewid mewn Gwaine Tywysog_ ,” he whispered.

It felt like someone had cracked an egg on his head—warmth trickled from his temples to his toes, slowly dripping down to cover his entire body. He could feel Gwaine still underneath his fingertips, which made the process not so alarming. When he opened his eyes, Gwaine’s mouth was gaping open in shock, which was a reminder to Merlin that his thumb was still on his lip. 

“If this is a dream, it’s a kinky one,” said Gwaine, and Merlin pulled away from him to fling his body over to a mirror, nearly tripping over himself.

Something was off, he thought—he wasn’t any shorter, and he didn’t feel any stronger or any hair around his shoulders—but when he looked at his reflection he saw a very bewildered Gwaine staring back at him.

Merlin gaped at himself for a solid three minutes before Gwaine interrupted with a cough.

“Well, I mean—that _is_ quite an improvement, isn’t it?” he quipped, but when Merlin turned back to the mirror, he lifted his hand to his face and saw that it was long-fingered and pale as ever. He rubbed at his cheek, which he saw was Gwaine’s cheek, in the mirror, but instead of feeling the bristly chafe of stubble he felt the smooth angularness of his own skin. “Merlin, mate, I know you’ve never been quite so good-looking but you’re starting to worry me—”

Merlin grabbed Gwaine’s hand as it was reaching for him and demanded, “Feel my face.” Gwaine, looking thoroughly alarmed, reeled away but Merlin grabbed the hand and forced it onto his cheek.

Wincing, Gwaine said, “Gods above, you could’ve told me I was that sandpapery…” Merlin let his hand drop as Gwaine turned towards the mirror and rubbed at his chin. “Maybe Agravaine’s right for once. I should shave more…”

Merlin stared at him for a blank second before throwing himself at his saddle bag, slamming open the Transfiguration spellbook. He forced his finger to carefully go over every line, which he’d thought he’d have memorized by now—he’d thought so, but…

_If the spell is performed properly, it will produce a glamour mimicking the chosen subject. Only powerful magic-users have been known to see past a transfigured glamour._

That’s why he had ignored it. He had never considered himself a “powerful magic-user”—he was naïve at best, as Gaius always said—and not thought twice about seeing through the glamour. But everything he experienced was through his same old Merlin eyes now that the spell had become complete. Tricking the mirror was not the same as tricking the senses, he reasoned.

“Powerful magic-user, huh?” said Gwaine, reading over his shoulder. “I suppose I’ve never known anyone else to compare you to. You did do a fine job transfiguring yourself.”

“Gwaine.” Merlin’s voice sounded the same to him, too—nothing at all like Gwaine’s raspy timbre, which was kind of disappointing. He turned to look Gwaine in the eyes. “This could really work.”

Gwaine stared at him with intensity, letting his eyes wander over the whole of his features. 

“Maybe I should start plucking my nose hairs,” he said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments! Much appreciated, as always. ♥


	3. Cysgu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, sorry for the considerable length between last chapter and this one; things have been quite busy and I wanted to make sure I was introducing Arthur the right way. 
> 
> Special thanks to Subhiksha who gave me the kick in the butt I needed. Hope you all have been well. ♥

Merlin sat with his coarse blanket tucked up to his chin, staring out his bedroom porthole window as dawn painted the sky varying shades of pink and purple. He couldn’t sleep—every time he closed his eyes he saw the looming gold man with a crown held aloft, and he was starting to understand more clearly what it meant. He felt like he was living a waking nightmare, reality too surreal to truly accept.

Today was the day Prince Arthur was due to arrive.

He rolled over and listened to the birds beginning to chirp in frenzy outside. He had practiced the transfiguration spell a few more times and each time he had been mistaken by passersby for Gwaine. The big test was when, after taking a deep breath, he had cast it in his bedroom and walked out to meet Gaius, who had merely looked at him in surprise and said that if he was looking for Merlin, he must have already left to start on his daily duties.

He was confident in his glamour now, but acting like Gwaine wasn’t the problem—he had known him for over a decade and could surely give a convincing impression. The true worry was managing to keep Arthur and Agravaine at bay while waiting for Gwaine to come back. The smallest mistake could throw the whole plan off; it had been a miscalculation to suggest it to Gwaine as soon as he had thought of it. But now that it was in motion, there was no stopping it—Merlin didn’t think he could possibly summon the heart to tell Gwaine that he wouldn’t take his place. They were out of options, but that didn’t make it any easier.

There was a creak as his door slowly opened; he glanced solemnly over the blanket at the hooded figure in the doorway.

“So it wasn’t a nightmare then,” he sighed.

“’Fraid not, mate,” said Gwaine, shutting the door behind him. He threw off his hood and Merlin noticed the dark circles under his eyes—so he wasn’t the only one losing sleep, he thought, his heart softening. He sat up as Gwaine sat at the foot of his bed and placed his hand on Merlin’s blanketed knee. “How are you feeling? Are you ready?”

Merlin let out a shaky laugh. “No. But I don’t think I’ll ever be.”

Gwaine was staring unblinkingly into his eyes, and it made Merlin swell with too many emotions to sort through.

“I know what you mean.” Gwaine gave Merlin’s knee a final pat before reaching into the rucksack he had slung over his shoulder and pulling out a white cotton tunic, black slacks, and a cape of rich purple silk. Merlin swallowed painfully as he ran his hands over what he knew was Gwaine’s finest formalwear. “This should at least make it less suspicious when you’re coming back to the castle. You can change your boots in my bedchamber.”

Merlin nodded and swung out of bed, trying not to be self-conscious as he pulled off his sleepwear, pretending he couldn’t feel Gwaine’s eyes on him. As he pulled on the tunic and slacks, he felt distinctly odd—they were too short on him while simultaneously too loose. He decided to tuck the tunic into the slacks to remedy the area around his waist, where the difference in body size was the most obvious. Even then, it felt wrong—these were by far the softest clothes he had ever worn. It was with some relief that he pulled on the worn leather of his own boots. Gwaine had been quiet this whole time but stood as Merlin finished lacing his boots.

He walked over and pulled the rich purple cape over Merlin’s shoulders, clipping it at the front as Merlin had done to him so many times. Merlin looked down at him and found himself once again trying to secure his features in his memory, this time for a very different reason.

Gwaine looked up to meet his gaze. “I wish you could see yourself,” he said earnestly.

“Because I look like a clotpole?” Merlin snorted, resorting to sarcasm to deal with his discomfort.

“No,” replied Gwaine quietly, “because you look like a prince.”

Merlin felt his cheeks reddening and decided to look up at the ceiling. “I haven’t even transformed into you yet.”

“Doesn’t stop you from looking handsome.”

Merlin was grateful for his decision to look up instead of at Gwaine; tears were starting to prickle at the corners of his eyes. Gwaine was always casually flirtatious with everybody and he had grown used to his good-natured teasing over the years. But his tone was so much softer and less jovial as he paid this compliment that Merlin knew it was sincere, which only made it painful.

Gwaine grabbed his rucksack from the bed, swinging it over his shoulder again, and looked out the window. The sky was now decidedly rosy.

“Let’s go.”

❧

The dew was soaking through Merlin’s boots, but he was working himself up into such a state of distress he didn’t even mind. Gwaine was two steps ahead of him, and he hadn’t looked over at him or spoken even once; Merlin figured he was in a similar mentality. When they entered the stable, Merlin automatically approached Gwaine’s favourite horse, Greenie, but Gwaine walked past his stall and instead began saddling a shorter mare.

“It would look suspicious if the crown prince’s favourite stallion went missing,” he said simply. Merlin bit his lip in a desperate attempt to avoid pouting.

“But Greenie’s fast,” he murmured sulkily. Gwaine fastened a bit into the mare’s mouth and, after giving her a quick pat, went over to Merlin and enveloped him very suddenly in a tight hug.

Merlin struggled to breathe, finding the warmth of Gwaine’s body far too irresistible; after a moment, all his muscles seemed to soften, and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if he was about to jump headfirst into deep water.

“Thank you,” said Gwaine, in such a gruff voice that Merlin knew he was holding back tears.

“Always,” whispered Merlin in response. As Gwaine pulled slowly, reluctantly away, Merlin’s hands automatically clenched around Gwaine’s forearms. Gwaine acquiesced to the pressure, leaning back in and pressing his forehead to Merlin’s, and Merlin felt a tear escape down his cheek, cursing his weepy tendencies. Gwaine wiped away the tear with his thumb, as if he had been expecting it.

“I’ll be back,” he said. Merlin nodded. “Soon,” he added. Merlin nodded again. “Before you can even blink.” Merlin snorted, sniffling, finally pushing him away.

“Get going then.”

Gwaine smiled at him—his full, true, beaming grin—and Merlin found the strength inside him to smile shakily back. He watched as Gwaine swung himself over the mare’s back and tied the supply packs to the saddle. And then, with one final look that held a thousand goodbyes, Gwaine steered his mare from the stable and trotted away down a path towards the forest.

Merlin stared after him for a moment, stunned by the suddenness of the transition from “being with Gwaine” to “being alone”, before remembering what he had to do. He closed his eyes, focusing singularly on his memory of Gwaine’s face, and murmured, “ _Drawsnewid mewn Gwaine Tywysog_.” Again, he felt that odd sensation of dripping from the crown of his head down his whole body, but he had now experienced it enough for it not to surprise him.

When he opened his eyes, he knew that they would look brown and long-lashed to the rest of the world. Straightening, trying to wipe the look of disconcertedness off his face, he walked out of the stable to be Prince Gwaine.

❧

As Merlin meandered back over to the castle through the grass, trying very hard to not think about what he was about to do, he realized right away that there was some disturbance. He could see through the open windows maids and servants running past each other holding plates, robes, and decorations, horses whinnying and stamping their feet somewhere in the direction of the courtyard, and a disembodied voice yelling directions here and there. Seeing the commotion made him draw to a sudden halt—if he had been himself, Merlin the manservant, he would’ve been part of these hurried activities, perhaps one of the most involved. But now, as Prince Gwaine, he had no idea where his place was, what he was supposed to do.

He felt a strange feeling as if he was separating from his body—uncertainty pounded through his every blood vessel. He closed his eyes, trying to think…where should he go? What should he do?

“ _Your Majesty_!”

The loud voice made him nearly jump out of his skin; he turned his head suddenly to the appearance of a very ruffled-looking old scholar with a round stomach, dressed head-to-toe in dark purple scribe’s robes. He was hurrying over to him, his face a blotchy red.

“Geoffrey,” Merlin breathed, relieved to see his and Gwaine’s old schoolmaster. Geoffrey at least yelled at him and Gwaine almost equally—unlike Gaius, who usually put the blame solely on Merlin’s shoulders—so the piercingly stern look he was giving him was almost comforting in its familiarity.

“Where have you been? The king has been so anxious, he’s sent guards out looking for you!” snapped Geoffrey.

Merlin racked his brains to how Gwaine would respond to something like this—he tried to project the same air of breezy, carefree confidence. He let his mouth fall into an easy smirk. “What’s surprising about that? Wouldn’t it be more worrying if he wasn’t in some kind of state?”

Geoffrey looked, if possible, more annoyed. “I would have thought that you would take meeting your life partner more seriously than you have past responsibilities. Perhaps that was optimistic foolery on my part.”

Merlin’s faux confidence crumbled away to reveal wide-eyed shock. “Prince Arthur’s here already?” At Geoffrey’s silent gravity, he felt goosebumps scatter up and down his arms, and his eyes started scanning the length of the castle’s walls as if he could see through the solid stone. “He’s _here_?”

“He’s in the great hall,” Geoffrey replied, somewhat mollified by Merlin’s horrified reaction. “You should come straight away.”

Merlin could only nod numbly as Geoffrey turned away from him with a swish of robes. He followed his old tutor like a silent ghost, floating along without purpose or conscientiousness. As he walked through the corridors of the castle he’d lived in all his life, he became uncomfortably aware of everyone passing staring at him, and, when he looked directly at them, quickly averting their eyes. He was mentally calling distantly to Gwaine, wondering whether he was doing the same to him; he almost wished he was the one alone in the woods, wilderness survival be damned…

It was at the heavy oak doors of the great hall that Merlin’s brain reentered his body, and as soon as it did his legs turned to water—inside waited King Agravaine and Prince Arthur, and the thought of every possible outcome was more horrible than the last.

 _I could run_ , he thought feebly. But a sharper, more severe voice inside him said, _No. You have to be brave for Gwaine’s sake_ , and this at least made his shoulders a little straighter.

“I’m not allowed in, sire,” Geoffrey said after a few moments, and when Merlin looked over at him, the scribe’s eyes were soft with understanding. Merlin thought that Gwaine must have looked absolutely pathetic with him having completely sapped his body of his usual bravado—he attempted one of Gwaine’s comforting smiles and received a gentle pat on the shoulder.

He turned towards the doors and let out a long breath; then, as he’d seen Gwaine do so many times, he pushed open both the heavy doors at once with a loud rumble.

The four men who stood at the end of the hall turned to him in unison—Agravaine’s forehead was creased with barely disguised fury; Gwaine’s youngest brother, Prince Gareth, was chewing his lip nervously; a very handsome knight cloaked in red stood defensively with one hand on his scabbard; and the last, the last…

Merlin’s breath caught in his throat—he had known it would be him, and yet he had hoped with every fibre of his being that it would not be. The golden man, his features clearer than they had ever been in his dreams, stared back at him from mere metres away. He had broad shoulders and a sharp jaw but soft features. His straight blond hair neatly framed his face, the line of his Roman nose led to lush pink lips, and he had easily the largest blue eyes Merlin had ever seen. They were so large at the moment, in fact, that Merlin thought that they perhaps matched the fear in his own.

Arthur Pendragon was beautiful, Merlin realized. He briefly wondered if Gwaine had known this whether he would have been so eager to run away, but dismissed the thought as soon as it came—Arthur was not the problem. The _marriage_ was the problem, and no amount of good looks would change that. He felt his—or rather, Gwaine’s—brow furrow, and at the same moment Arthur’s face relaxed into an unreadable mask.

“My apologies, Prince Arthur,” said Agravaine in an exceptionally nasal voice, which Merlin knew meant he was disguising his irritation. “Gwaine does struggle with timeliness. But I assure you, he has many other assets to make up for this fault.”

Arthur did not respond to this, and everyone was still staring at him, so Merlin tried to summon Gwaine’s spirit as he gave a quick bow, cleared his throat, and said, “Warm greetings, Your Highness. I hope your travel was pleasant? It does tend to rain a lot here.”

Arthur blinked, his eyes travelling slowly down Merlin’s—Gwaine’s, Gwaine’s!—body, and Merlin struggled to resist the blood travelling to his cheeks. He suddenly felt profoundly grateful that he wasn’t wearing one of Gwaine’s shirts with the deep plunges. Arthur’s gaze finally came to rest, solidly, on Merlin’s feet.

“Yes, I can see that,” he said in a dry, lilting voice. He sounded, Merlin thought with distaste, quite as posh as Agravaine during one of his speeches.

But then, panic hit—he glanced down to see not Gwaine’s shiny black boots, but his own thin felt ones, soaked in mud from the field. Between his own dread and the chaos inside the castle, he had forgotten to run up to Gwaine’s chambers to change his boots. He looked slowly back up and saw the rest now staring pointedly at his feet, Agravaine’s mouth wrinkled in distaste.

“Gods, Gwaine, where’ve you been?” inquired Gareth.

Merlin, who had never been very good at lying convincingly, said, “I was out visiting Greenie.” He glanced at Arthur, who was frowning in confusion. “My best stallion,” he said quickly in explanation. “Must’ve got carried away.”

“We have stablehands for a reason,” Agravaine said coolly. “Unless, perhaps, you were planning on going for a ride?”

There was a glint in his eyes that Merlin didn’t like, and he knew what was not being said— _unless you were trying to run away?_

“And miss meeting my…” The confident sentence trailed off as Merlin could not find any title he wished to apply to Arthur. “My…new friend? Do you really think me so uncourteous, dearest brother?”

The more sarcasm he spoke with, the more he felt like Gwaine would approve; he gave a sardonic smile to a purpling Agravaine, and when he caught Arthur’s eye, the prince looked away. The knight beside him, however, narrowed his eyes.

“And who’s this?” blustered Merlin in a desperate attempt to gloss over the awkwardness, gesturing towards the knight.

“This is Sir Lancelot, sire,” said Arthur, and added with a tinge of pride, “my best knight. He is the only accompaniment I brought.”

Lancelot bowed in the general direction of the three sons of Lot and said respectfully, “At your service.”

Agravaine opened his mouth to speak, but words tumbled out of Gareth’s mouth in sudden excitement.

“Not _the_ Sir Lancelot? Lancelot du Lac?” he said, flushing, and at Lancelot’s reluctant nod, which looked more like a bow of the head, a wide grin spread across his face. “But I’ve heard so many grand tales! You’re practically a creature of myth!”

“Most, if not all, are true,” said Arthur, smiling now. “He’s very humble, our Lance, but I daresay he is the greatest knight in all of Britain.”

Lancelot had bowed his head again so that his expression was unreadable, but he didn’t seem to dare contradict his prince. Gareth was practically bouncing with restrained enthusiasm.

“Did you really beat a knight with a hand and a foot tied behind your—”

“I’m sure our guests are tired from their journey, Gareth,” interrupted Agravaine, his eyes flashing. Gareth deflated a little under his glare. “They must rest. There will be a feast, of course,” he said grandly as he turned toward Arthur, “in your honour. It would be a shame if you were too tired to enjoy it. Gwaine can take you up to your chambers. Gareth can show—ah, Sir Lancelot was it?—the knights’ barracks.”

Lancelot’s hand went to his hilt again and he looked very much like he wished to protest, but Arthur put out a placating hand and said, “Very well. I do miss a bed, after so many nights of sleeping on the ground…”

There was an oddly disjointed moment where Merlin sensed that usually Gwaine would have said something flirty in reponse to this, and it seemed as if Agravaine and Gareth actually waited a moment in anticipation of it; but Merlin had never been one for crude jokes, especially in front of royalty, so instead there was an awkward lapse of silence before Arthur, clueless to all this, said, “Shall we, then?” and Merlin nodded, attempting a gracious smile as he gestured towards the doors.

He turned his back quickly so he would not have to face the suspicion potentially festering in Agravaine’s eyes.

❧

All eyes were on Merlin and Arthur, two supposedly handsome princes walking side-by-side down the halls, and Merlin wondered absently how they must have looked together. He kept glancing over at Arthur’s profile, which was, like the rest of him, immaculate. If Arthur noticed, he did not comment; he stared off into the distance with a rather sullen pout. The atmosphere was awkward, but still more manageable than with Agravaine’s hawklike gaze on them.

When they finally climbed the last staircase to the best guest chambers, Merlin realized he should probably have given Arthur a tour of the castle, but it was too late; he opened the door and a maid, who had been placing flowers in a vase, jumped and, bowing and keeping her head low, scurried out. Arthur’s shoulder grazed against his as he stepped through the doorway and Merlin lurched as if he had been shocked; even this slight touch felt charged, electric. Merlin shook his head to clear it and suddenly Arthur’s voice came from closeby, “What are you doing?”

He jumped again, realizing that Arthur was standing mere inches in front of him. He forced back his ever-increasing panic and said quickly, “A fly. Buzzing in my ear.” He swatted feebly around him, and Arthur raised an eyebrow.

Arthur leaned in a bit closer, and he smelled pleasant, in a very different way than Gwaine—sweet, like an exotic fruit. He was examining Merlin’s face very carefully, and Merlin tried not to let his nervousness about this show.

“You don’t look like your brothers,” said Arthur finally, and Merlin let out a relieved breath.

“I look a lot like my mother,” he replied, which was something that was true about him as well as Gwaine. Agravaine and Gwaine looked almost nothing alike; Gareth though, he had always thought, looked more like Gwaine, although he had a bit of a fairer, wilder look, and of course the softness of youth at fourteen. But he knew Gwaine’s features so well he had probably been looking for them in Gareth’s face. And although he had never met his father, he was very aware of how much he looked like Hunith, with her feathery black hair and pale skin.

“Oh,” said Arthur, scrutinizing him again. After a moment he said, “I’ve been told that as well.”

Merlin nodded his understanding immediately, for he had already recognized the marks of feminine beauty in Arthur’s face and thought it suited him extremely well. Another awkward moment passed, Merlin hovering in the doorway, itching to leave.

“You could come in, you know,” said Arthur suddenly.

Merlin paled. The idea of spending even a minute in a bedroom with Arthur Pendragon was far too overwhelming to even consider.

“Oh, no, I should head back down,” he said quickly, and then added to sound less curt, “to…er…train my knights and such.”

“I need to talk to you about something important,” said Arthur as if he had not spoken. “I have something to give you.”

Dread dropped like a heavy rock into the pit of Merlin’s stomach, and he shook his head fervently.

“Oh no,” he stammered, “no, no…surely this could wait until dinner? You need to…um…rest…”

“I would prefer it to be private,” said Arthur.

“Well,” said Merlin in a considerably higher pitch, now quite sure that if he hadn’t sounded like himself before he did now, “after dinner, then. Or, you know…another time, maybe…”

Arthur reached for his satchel and Merlin thought that if he pulled out an engagement ring he would truly faint, and in a sudden, irrepressible urge to stop everything, he grabbed Arthur’s wrist, pulled his hand to his lips, and laid a firm but gentle kiss on it.

“I’ll see you at dinner, love,” he said, in an imitation of Gwaine’s casual flirtiness, and turned to leave Arthur, baffled, in the hallway.

❧

The great hall had been prepared magnificently for the feast—coloured lanterns hung suspended from the ceiling, great tables that could hold fifty men each filled most of the space; all the best dinnerware in shining Lothian gold was set out, and everyone was wearing their most colourful clothes. Merlin’s eyes tracked Guinevere as she weaved in between the tables pouring mead—she was a familiar face from a very strange new perspective, sitting on a throne on the dais that separated royalty from the lower classes. He watched as Sir Lancelot held up his cup for another refill and Gwen scurried over. Although Merlin had been on the dais before, he had never been seated—he’d always stood a solid foot behind, pouring wine whenever Gwaine needed it. Now there was another boy doing it, younger with a permanently startled look. He jumped forward as Arthur emptied another glass.

Agravaine seemed to be thinking in a similar vein to Merlin as he gave the boy a curious look. “Where is that servant you’re so fond of, Gwaine?”

Merlin choked on his water. “What servant?” he nervously replied, before he could consider how suspicious this sounded—anyone who knew Gwaine for longer than a day knew that he was referring to Merlin.

But surprisingly, Agravaine seemed accustomed to this response. Rolling his eyes, he said, “Alright. Your friend, then. That boy. Isn’t he always at your heels?”

At this point, Arthur and Gareth had seemed to catch on to the topic of the conversation, and unfortunately their interest looked piqued.

“Yeah, where is Merlin, Gwaine?” asked Gareth, who had been a bit spoiled by Merlin since he was little and was thus quite fond of him.

“Merlin?” repeated Arthur, on Merlin’s right. Merlin’s heartbeat quickened and he looked over at Arthur to see his eyes a bit glazed from the wine. “ _Mer_ lin…” he said again, rolling the ‘r’ off his tongue, and this caused an inexplicable shiver to run down Merlin’s spine.

“He’s sick,” Merlin said curtly, turning back to Agravaine and Gareth. “He’s with Gaius.”

Inwardly, Merlin thanked Gaius for his introverted tendency to work at home instead of attend feasts, which he always complained were too loud. This made his absence correlate with his lie, and also left Gaius unaware that Merlin was up to anything suspicious.

“Merlin’s an odd name,” noted Arthur.

Merlin, who desperately wanted to get off the subject, snapped at him, “Not really. It’s like any other name.” Arthur gave him then a very snide look, so Merlin quickly gestured to Arthur’s cup and called to the servant boy, “We need more wine over here.”

The boy rushed over to fill his cup but Arthur peered around him at Merlin and said, “I’ve never heard it before.”

“Well, you must not be very well-traveled then.”

“I am, in fact! Very!”

It was sort of funny to see the prim prince flushed red, his eyes now sober with annoyance, and Merlin found his lips twitching into the beginning of a laugh, despite himself.

“Think you’re funny, do you?” snapped Arthur.

“I tend to, yeah,” said Merlin, just so he could watch a vein pop in Arthur’s forehead. Then, after seeming to consider whether making more of a scene was worth it, Arthur let out a sigh and leaned back in his throne, taking a forceful chug of wine.

“It _is_ odd,” Merlin heard him mutter into his cup, only because he was right beside him, and he reminded him so much of a petulant child at that moment that he snorted again.

“Merlin is Gwaine’s oldest friend,” said Agravaine finally, and when Merlin turned around, he saw that his eyes were on him, narrow and contemplative. “You were born on the same day, if I recall correctly.”

“Um.” Merlin coughed, feeling cold fear bloom in his chest. “Yeah. Hopefully he gets better soon.”

Agravaine paused a moment, and then raised his cup, something in his gaze seeming very dangerous. “Cheers to that.”

They all drank to Merlin’s good health, and Merlin discretely took a sip of his water.

❧

The banquet was winding down and people were starting to wheedle off in groups to go to bed. The hall reeked of spilled alcohol and smoked meat, and the servants were already trying to contain the mess. Gwen looked relieved when Lancelot helped her pick up a man who had passed out drunk from the floor. Some of the knights had come to grasp Merlin’s hand and bow in greeting to Arthur before heading out.

Agravaine smiled in Arthur’s direction. “I hope all was to your pleasure, Your Highness?”

“Oh, of course,” drawled Arthur, and Agravaine seemed pleased, although Merlin thought he had almost certainly heard a note of a sarcasm in it.

“Then I must take my rest. Perhaps Gwaine could accompany you to your chambers?” His smile when he looked at Merlin was cold, so cold. Merlin’s blood instantly chilled; how had Gwaine lived with this for so long?

He opened his mouth to respond something surly about Arthur already knowing the way, when he felt a firm hand grasp his shoulder, radiating warmth.

“I would be delighted,” Arthur said, and Merlin felt his heart skip a beat. “Good, good.” Agravaine didn’t even look over his shoulder as he said, “Come along, Gareth,” and swept out of the room. Gareth, who had been hoping to catch Lancelot’s eye, pouted a little but followed obediently, nodding politely in Arthur’s direction.

Merlin’s gaze trailed slowly over to Arthur to find him staring intensely at him. “Erm…to your chambers, then?”

“Where can we go that’s quiet?” asked Arthur, again like he hadn’t heard him.

Merlin gave him an incredulous look before saying sarcastically, “Um, your chambers?”

Arthur rolled his eyes lazily. “Somewhere you’ll actually _enter_ with me?”

Merlin felt his cheeks working up to a blush, and he struggled to push it down. “The backwoods is usually…”

“Good,” interrupted Arthur, and he rose confidently but swayed when he was on his feet. Merlin caught him around his arms to steady him, and Arthur shook him off. “I’m all right.”

“I think I should take you to your chambers,” said Merlin gently.

“Do you not have the term _I’m all right_ in Lothian? Do I have to explain it to you?” Arthur snapped irritably, and Merlin’s lips pinched tightly together.

“I don’t know, do you have the term _you’re a prat_ in Camelot?” he asked, and was met with a startled, blue-eyed look.

“You can’t talk to me like that!” Arthur swayed again.

“Why not? What’s a spat between fiancés?” asked Merlin, before he could regret it.

Immediately Arthur’s entire expression softened. He reached out and, with a feather-light touch, ran the back of his hand down Merlin’s forearm, clothed in the white cloth of Gwaine’s tunic. He seemed to leave a trail of warmth on Merlin’s skin.

“Can you take me to the backwoods?” he asked quietly, not looking at Merlin but instead at where they were touching, and Merlin, whose throat had suddenly tightened, merely nodded.

❧

It was dark but still warm, humidity causing the light cloth of Gwaine’s tunic to stick to Merlin’s skin. The crickets were chirruping all around them from the darkness of the woods, and Merlin was glad he’d had the presence of mind to grab a lantern before they headed out, for even with it he could only barely see three feet in front of him. Arthur, in his drunken stupor, was overconfidently striding over the foreign ground, and Merlin struggled to keep pace with him so the prince wouldn’t trip and fall into a ditch.

When they were far enough that the sounds from the castle became a mere buzz, Merlin pulled on the back of Arthur’s sweeping red cape.

“This is as far as I go,” he said, “unless you want us both to get eaten by a bear.”

Arthur turned to him so suddenly that he lurched back, the creak of the lantern handle impossibly loud in the stillness.

“You probably already know this,” he pronounced, his gaze locked with Merlin’s, far too steady for how much wine he had consumed, “but my mother died when I was born.”

Merlin’s heart leapt to his throat; he had not known that. In all the preparation for the faux engagement, he and Gwaine had overlooked a rather glaring point—to research the fiancé himself. It occurred to Merlin now that he knew nothing about Arthur besides that he would be king of some country he had never heard of.

“I’m—” he began to say, but Arthur plowed right through his apology.

“In Camelot, we have a custom for engagements,” he said determinedly, and Merlin noticed that he was reaching for a pocket.

“Sire,” he said, his voice choked.

“I wasn’t sure if I should still do this,” Arthur rambled on, hand enclosing on something, “considering that Bràthair is a druid ceremony, and I confess I don’t know as much as I should about druid customs…” he pulled out something that shone with reflected silver light from Merlin’s upheld lantern, “but this feels like the right thing to do.”

Arthur’s hand reached out, palm open, to Merlin, and Merlin shakily brought the lantern closer to examine a medallion, encircled in silver with a cross and a dove, wings open as if in flight. It seemed to be emanating some sort of strange force that made Merlin hesitant to touch it, so he didn’t.

“My mother’s crest,” said Arthur, in a hushed voice now, and Merlin closed his eyes.

“A dove,” he whispered. “The symbol for peace.”

“Yes.” Merlin opened his eyes to see Arthur’s impossibly blue gaze still intent on his face. “Peace between our two kingdoms.”

Merlin stared at the prince and felt strangely sensitive, as if the slightest touch would set him aflame. He could not hear the crickets anymore, or the leaves of the trees; everything disappeared in Arthur’s eyes. And he sensed more than he rationally thought that if he lied to the man in front of him right now, the forces of nature would never forgive him.

“Arthur,” he said, carefully, letting the name fall from his tongue for the first time in the prince’s audience and discovering that it tasted different, “I can’t accept this.”

Arthur blinked, once, twice. Then he recoiled as if he had been hurt and looked down at the medallion.

“This is what you give someone you trust,” said Merlin, “and we don’t know each other.” He bit back his tongue to just barely stop the word _yet_ from escaping. Where was this strong attraction coming from?

“I trust you, Gwaine,” said Arthur, which cemented Merlin’s decision. He reached over and closed Arthur’s hand over the crest with two of his own.

“You shouldn’t,” he whispered.

He looked down so he could avoid Arthur’s gaze, which he knew was sweeping over his face. Then Arthur pulled away from him to put his crest back into his pocket. Merlin’s gaze was still lowered when Arthur proffered something else into his line of vision.

“Will you at least take this?” Arthur said. “I’m not sure it will fit but…”

It was one of Arthur’s silver rings, plucked from his own hand. There was no strange force that surrounded this, and Merlin felt quite comfortable taking it and examining it in his palm. It was much too large for even his thumb, but he knew it would be incredibly rude to refuse, so he wrapped his fingers around it and drew it to his chest with a closed fist.

“It’s lovely,” he said gently. “Thank you.”

Arthur gave a small smile, and in the lamplight he suddenly looked so breathtakingly beautiful—his hair shining in golden halo around him, his tanned skin suddenly seeming to have its own glow in the darkness, that it physically hurt to look at him. And Merlin, before he could even think it through or come to any decision, whispered, “ _Cysgu_ ,” and the light shining from Arthur’s eyes dulled immediately, his eyelids fluttered, and then he fell forward, right into Merlin’s arms.

“Nice going, warlock,” Merlin muttered under his breath as Arthur let out a snort of a snore. Then he started pulling Arthur’s sleepheavy body to the castle.


	4. Ffoi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody, thank you for your support and reading this far. Guess who finally got back to reading The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley? MISTAKE.
> 
> I didn't choose the Arthurian life, the Arthurian life chose me. 
> 
> Enjoy. ♥

When Merlin rolled over in his cot to awakeness the next morning, he checked his bedside table to make sure he hadn’t dreamt yesterday up—he realized, scornfully, that he had been doing that a lot lately. Sure enough, Arthur’s large silver ring gleamed back at him, and it looked so out of place in his shabby little room attached to the physician’s ward that it reminded him of painful reality.

He, Merlin, was a peasant _and_ a fugitive warlock, literally the lowest that society had to offer. Yet in the most technical sense he was engaged to a prince.

And he had accepted this ring? What lapse of judgement had provoked that decision? He shouldn’t have accepted anything from Arthur. He was a nobody. He was a mere pawn in the royal chess game, and Arthur would one day be king of the board.

But nonetheless he reached over and took the ring between his index finger and his thumb, holding it up so it gleamed in the light shining in from his window. He remembered, vividly, how Arthur had gleamed in the torchlight. The sullen royal had become, for the briefest of moments, the arresting golden man from his dreams.

He let the ring slide down his index finger and let out a sigh as it hung listlessly from it, leaving a wide enough space in the middle for Merlin to squint through. Yup, it was much too big, at least for his slender hands. Perhaps the real Gwaine’s, thick and calloused as they were, may have fit. But Merlin had no plans to be sporting it around the castle—

“Merlin!” As Gaius burst through the door Merlin plunged his ringed hand underneath his pillow and jerked back to sling a venomous look at his uncle.

“Must you do that every morning?” he groaned.

“Must I remind you of your duties every morning?” Gaius was positively livid. “Prince Arthur is here, and you’re not accompanying Gwaine to breakfast?”

Merlin thought about how best to answer this. For at least three years now he had brought Gwaine his breakfast every morning, hot and steaming, and gently woke him from his princely slumber. Now that he _was_ Gwaine, he figured he didn’t have to do that anymore, the only benefit of this whole plot for him seeming to be an extra hour of sleep. But something in the wording Gaius chose triggered a spark of fear in him.

“What do you mean, accompanying? Where’s he gone?” _Besides the Kingdom of Faerie?_

Gaius gave a long I-am-too-old-to-deal-with-the-young-and-stupid sigh, propping a hand on his hip. “Arthur and Gwaine are _engaged_. They must take meals together.”

Oh.

Merlin’s eyes popped wide open.

Oh, no.

He threw himself out of bed, wrenching off his sleep tunic and trading it for his worn blue one.

“What time is it?” he asked breathlessly, as he pulled up the nearest pair of trousers he could find.

“Breakfast probably started around a quarter hour ago—” Gaius began, only to be interrupted by a string of curses that tightened his mouth into a hard, white line. “Your work ethic is admirable but your vocabulary sounds like it’s taken a morning swim in the pigs’ trough.”

“Sorry, Gaius.” Merlin stuffed the ring in his pocket. He was already calculating the fastest possible morning route to get to Gwaine’s chambers that would make him look the least suspicious. He moved to run past Gaius, but at the last moment reversed to kiss him on the cheek. “What would I do without you?”

The same words Gwaine had thrown at him in the morning. Perhaps in his absence Merlin really was becoming more like him, just out of missing him.

“In all likelihood? Die,” said Gaius grimly, and Merlin couldn’t decide between rolling his eyes or grinning so he just ran out the door.

 

❧

 

When Merlin entered Gwaine’s chambers, he slowed down for the first time that day. He had entered last night to change his clothes and then discretely go back to his room, but it was different in the daylight. Everything looked and smelled and seemed like Gwaine, but he wasn’t there. There would be no “The sun is up,” no “Indeed ‘tis”, no harmless flirting and sleepy smiles.

The room also looked far more untidy than usual. Merlin wasn’t winning any manservant awards but he usually kept the room in relative order. But now the bed was still unmade, the closet and drawers thrown open. Evidently Gwaine had had a feverish night and packed promptly in the morning by just throwing things into his rucksack. The thought of his best friend being in such distress troubled Merlin enough that he rubbed at his eyelids, trying to steady his breaths.

 _Gwaine is fine_ , he assured himself. _You have to take care of yourself._

He nodded along to that little voice in his head and peered into Gwaine’s open closet. He reached in and started shuffling through all the tunics for something breakfast-appropriate.

“Dammit, Gwaine,” he muttered when he realized that the shirt he’d worn yseterday was easily the most modest of Gwaine’s collection—every other shirt had a gaping V-neck, was somewhat see-through, or both.

He pulled out a respectable-looking white tunic that had small lace flowers sewn on the cuffs and groaned—this one had the holes for a drawstring but clearly Gwaine had removed it.

No matter how he tried to rationalize it to himself, he could not accept wearing a deep plunge. He knew it would be Gwaine’s body everyone saw and that no one would blink an eye, but just the thought of passing by his reflection and seeing himself in one of those…

He shuddered, shook his head. It would take time he didn’t really have but he had to preserve his dignity in some way. He removed the drawstring from last night’s shirt and weaved it through the holes of the new shirt. Then he carefully drew it closed all the way to his neck. That would do it, he thought with a small smile, before pulling on a pair of trousers and Gwaine’s firm, buckled boots.

 

❧

 

The first thing to strike Merlin when he burst into the great hall half an hour late for breakfast was the chilling silence.

The only sounds that were bouncing off the walls were that of cutlery hitting plates and fast chewing, and with the temperamental Lothian sky, the little light coming through the windows gave the whole room a grey hue, which did not help matters.

Merlin let his eyes wander over all the food on the table—baskets of fruit he’d never seen in such abundance, steaming eggs and sausages, at least five types of bread and endless more of cheese, even a variety of sweets that only Gareth seemed to have taken advantage of. He had never seen such a sumptuous morning spread, and although he had not eaten his usual breakfast of porridge, he had no appetite whatsoever.

Agravaine was staring at him, radiating icy currents.

“I see you’ve chosen to grace us with your presence, sire,” he said, his tone heavy with sarcasm and annoyance.

“I…overslept. My deepest apologies,” said Merlin, toeing the line between genuine and ironic, and as Agravaine narrowed his eyes to slits he figured he had actually overstepped it.

He looked away and his gaze immediately landed on Arthur, who was busy not looking at him at all. The prince was sawing through his last sausage and seemed to be fully consumed by this task alone.

Merlin frowned. So it wasn’t only Agravaine emitting chills.

Lancelot was sitting next to Arthur the farthest from the king, and he seemed politely indifferent to all the tension. Although there was a space between Arthur and Agravaine that Gwaine was clearly supposed to sit at, Merlin chose to sit beside Gareth so he could have as much space between him and Agravaine as possible.

Gareth beamed at him as he sat down. “You should try the mince pie! It’s excellent!”

Merlin tried a smile and reached for a pie. He couldn’t even think he could swallow around the lump that had formed in his throat. The atmosphere was too heavy, and he couldn’t stop looking at Arthur from beneath his eyelashes, who was not returning the favour.

He could see the hazy image of him last night—warm. Beautiful.

Merlin’s lip trembled and he poked absentmindedly at the pastry in front of him. Something was wrong. Did Arthur remember what he’d done last night?

Gareth promptly intruded on his thoughts. “Can I come to training today, Gwaine?” Merlin’s head snapped over to him. “Please? Percival said he would show me how to fight with double swords…I won’t touch them though!” he amended quickly, as if Gwaine would have protested this condition.

Merlin’s stomach dropped, if possible, even lower.

In the whole rush with Arthur, he had forgotten about Gwaine’s duties as captain of the knights. He couldn’t even jab without throwing himself off balance.

With increasing panic, he started mentally leafing through spells that would eliminate clumsiness and couldn’t come up with anything.

“Gwaine?” Gareth prompted again, this time with concern.

“Um…yeah…that sounds…all right,” Merlin responded uncertainly, now trying to think of spells that brought strength to even the most spindly of arms.

Gareth released a little sound of triumph and addressed across the table, “You’ll attend too, won’t you, Sir Lancelot? And you, sire?”

Lancelot looked at Arthur, who, with his eyes still trained singularly on the crumbs remaining on his plate, said, “I suppose I must.”

His usual lilt was gone and his voice sounded very hard, as if he was struggling to maintain control.

Merlin frowned. Something was definitely wrong.

Agravaine, who did not seem to pick up on this, said grandly, “It would be a great honour to see you in the field, sire. Gwaine is also highly praised for his skills in combat.” Agravaine gave a mean chuckle, glancing towards Merlin, looking every bit like a toad that had just eaten a fly. “Well, at least in Lothian.”

The first feeling to wash over Merlin was indignation—Gwaine was a championed fighter renowned across Britain! How dare he imply he was less?—but the second was far more consuming: pure, unadulterated panic. His breaths became sharp and short; he was terrible in the arena. So terrible that his only experience with it was when Gwaine dragged him to practice at ten years old and, when Merlin nearly maimed himself within ten minutes, never asked him back again.

Oh, God. He was going to die.

When Arthur stood from his chair and excused himself, Merlin almost didn’t register it—it wasn’t until he was walking out the doors with Lancelot belatedly standing to follow him that he realized. Immediately, without any conscious decision made, he threw himself out the doors and ran after Arthur into the foyer.

“Ar—” he began, and then saw all the wide-eyed servants passing by turn to him. “Sire!” he corrected himself. “Wait! Please!”

Arthur’s back was to him but it looked like he had every inclination to continue walking away. But some learned manners must have kicked in because he slowed to a stop, and, seeming to brace himself, turned to Merlin.

His large eyes were spitting fire, his brow crinkled.

“Yes, _sire_?” he bit out, the words polite but the tone dripping poison. “What can I do for you?”

Merlin was so stunned that for a moment no words could form on his tongue. Then he felt a tingling in his fingertips and knew he was getting mad, which never turned out well for him.

“I’m sorry, did all the wine last night drown out your capacity for politeness, or is there some other reason you’re behaving like a complete ass?” he snapped. Servants bustled away from the scene in all directions and he couldn’t exactly blame them. If he wasn’t Gwaine—that is, an idiot dressed up as Gwaine—he would be doing the exact same thing.

At this point, Arthur’s hand seized his forearm, squeezing so tightly that it _hurt_ —and Merlin bruised like a peach—pulling him into an alcove in a side corridor so they were safely hidden from prying eyes by a column. Shoved roughly up against a wall, Merlin couldn’t help but let out a squawk of protest—he hated being manhandled; it reminded him of childhood bullying and how weak he was physically.

“What are you—” he hissed, trying to pull his wrist from Arthur’s grip and failing horribly, “ _doing_?”

“What’s a little spat between fiancés?” Arthur said in a higher, mocking voice, but before Merlin could be annoyed by this, he dropped back to normal and said, “Oh, wait. I forgot. You don’t want to marry me.”

A silence followed this, in which Merlin just looked at him with eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. He even quit struggling under Arthur’s grip, surprised when Arthur let him go.

“You think I wouldn’t notice? The way you avoid me?” Arthur spat. “You always pick a fight, you only call me by title, and it looks like you wouldn’t sit next to me if it was the only seat left on earth. And I…” Arthur suddenly flushed, his eyes brightening, “I may have absolutely _humiliated_ myself last night, but I remember you refusing my marriage token. I suppose you thought I wasn’t to your standard even before I blacked out.”

Merlin did not know what to say. He had never heard anyone misunderstand so many things at once. The only thing he had gotten right was that he didn’t want to marry him. He opened his mouth to explain but found he had no idea where to start.

He was held captive by Arthur’s enormous eyes. Anger was leaving them to be replaced by a heart-wrenching sadness.

“Look, I’m as powerless in this arrangement as you are,” he said, in a softer voice. “I know I’m not what you want, but to make it easier for us both, I would appreciate it if you could at least tolerate me in public.”

These words were so cutting, so deeply laced with self-loathing, that it physically hurt to hear them. And in the moment it took Merlin to recover from this verbal wound, Arthur had already pulled away and turned the corner.

It was only in the lingering vacuum of cold air that Merlin realized that Arthur had been close enough for him to feel his body heat. 

 

❧

 

As Merlin made his way back to Gwaine’s chambers, he had to actively blink back the tears that were quickly forming at the corners of his eyes.

 _Damn these tear ducts_ , he mentally cursed, wiping violently across his face with his sleeve. He had been like a leaky bucket lately and it was starting to get very frustrating.

Reasonably, he knew, there was no strategic reason to care about that exchange. The wedding and Gwaine’s plan to foil it was still on track; Arthur’s own opinion on the matter was not really a mitigating factor. But the fact that Arthur valued himself so lowly, and assumed the worst from all their interactions, bothered him.

Yes, he had refused to take the crest. Yes, he was uncomfortable being alone with him. Yes, the prince could get on his last nerve.

But he had also accepted Arthur’s ring against his better judgement. He had carried Arthur to bed last night. He had even removed his cape and his boots and tucked two blankets around him because the castle could get drafty at night.

But all his actions, whether positive or negative, boiled down to the fact that he was _not_ Prince Gwaine. He was a liar-pants-on-fire manservant. But he couldn’t tell Arthur that.

He felt the bitter sting of regret hit him right in the stomach and blinked back even more tears. He wanted, more than ever, to take back the spell and curl up into a ball on his cot. He didn’t want to be the prince anymore. He couldn’t stand carrying on like this another second.

“Sire?”

He turned quickly to see Gwen looking at him with concern, a basket of yarn in one hand and the other outstretched, as if she wanted to touch him but couldn’t. She had such a kind, worried expression on her face.

“Are you all right?” she asked, and when Merlin opened his mouth, not knowing what in seven hells to say, he was suddenly struck by an inspiration.

“Gwen, can I ask you for a favour?” he said, and Gwen blinked quickly and broke into a tirade of stutters at Prince Gwaine casually calling her by her nickname. Oops. Merlin braved on as if that was not a slip-up. “Could you make a chain for me?”

❧

Merlin stared at himself in the mirror, finding himself to be more white-faced and hollow-cheeked than ever. He could not believe that he had put himself in such a position, that he had involved Gwen in this ridiculous quest, and that he was officially throwing every bit of his old life to the wind.

He dangled the chain from his thumb—Gwen, whose father was a blacksmith, had made a very tasteful but masculine rope of metal from chainmail links that ended right in the middle of Merlin’s chest. Already hanging off it was Arthur’s silver ring.

Merlin wondered how much time he had already spent staring at the token. He felt foolishly attached to it, but it was difficult to accept that he was toting around a symbol of Gwaine’s engagement to Arthur like a prize. The servants would probably have a field day with castle gossip if he was seen wearing it.

He put the chain over his head and tucked it under his laced shirt. It felt cold against the skin and bone covering his heart. He wouldn’t be able to forget it was there, but nobody would be able see it.

_I suppose you thought I wasn’t to your standard…_

Merlin grit his teeth as Arthur’s words echoed in his mind, like a ghost reminding him of his past sins. Not to his standard? Like _he_ was the pompous prince, not pratty Arthur with his stupid blue eyes and his annoyingly perfect pronunciation?

Before he could change his mind, he pulled on the drawstring on his tunic and watched as it slowly unraveled; the seam fell open to reveal a large expanse of his flat chest, paler than the moon, a single mole underneath his collarbone.

Merlin shivered at his reflection, not recognizing the man staring back at him. He was not sure Gwaine was right when he said he looked like a prince, but he did indeed look like a stranger—cold wideset eyes looked back at him, his mouth in a firm line. His reflection looked much older and much more serious than he could ever remember being.

He pressed Arthur’s ring against his ribcage, where it would now be for the world to see. Gwaine would surely have made as bold a decision to keep the peace.

Merlin turned his back on his own expression full of uncertainty.

 

❧

 

It was looking to be a sunny afternoon. When Merlin entered the training grounds, which was a large plot of land cordoned off in the castle courtyard, the knights who had been joking around and laughing suddenly hushed. Merlin looked at them all with the most grim authority that he could muster. Percival, Gwaine’s secondhand knight, emerged from the crowd, staring at Merlin’s chest, and said in a hushed voice, “Gwaine, is that—?”

Merlin gave him a flat look that suggested that he should stop talking, and Percival’s mouth immediately snapped shut. The knights behind him all looked uneasy; certainly they had not expected their leader to acquiesce so easily to holy matrimony. And, Merlin remembered with an unpleasant swallow, the knights understood Gwaine’s marriage to mean leaving them for Camelot. He wasn’t surprised to see hurt and betrayal in many of their faces.

“Percival!” Gareth’s voice broke through the silence. He was hopping excitedly ahead of Arthur and Lancelot, who kept a sombre pace. Lancelot’s gaze was carefully roving over the knights, and Arthur’s was on his feet. Murmuring began to escalate among the crowd as they glared with suspicion at the foreign prince and his protector. Gareth ran up with a grin so reminiscent of Gwaine’s that it hurt to see, but when he saw Merlin his eyes trailed down to the ring at his bare chest in blatant shock. “Gwaine, what is—is that…?” The poor boy’s eyes were so wide that Merlin could see the green speckles in them. He, for no particular reason, had a sudden vivid recollection of bouncing Gareth on his knee when he was a child and laughing as he squealed in delight… “Why are you wearing that?” Gareth asked, forcing Merlin back to the present with a startlingly firm tone. “Where’s Merlin?”

Merlin looked away from his accusing gaze and let out a deep sigh. If someone had asked him before this whole debacle if anyone would notice his absence in Lothian, he would give a definite “no”. Now he knew it was not so easy to disappear, even as a negligible manservant in a castle of hundreds.

“Where’s Merlin, Gwaine?” repeated Gareth, his voice rising, and it was unclear whether that was due to anger or fear.

“I told you, he’s unwell. Don’t make a scene,” Merlin said calmly, but the words tasted bitter in his mouth, and when Gareth looked like he was about to retort, he didn’t know if he would have any way to combat it…

“Is there a problem?” Lancelot’s cool, rumbly voice was soft and yet it cut through the tension like a dagger; immediately Gareth seemed abashed and the knights merely curious, measuring him with their looks. But Merlin was the only one to look at Arthur, who was staring straight back at him.

He watched as those large baby blues trailed from Merlin’s face down the wide open expanse of his bared chest, settling on the ring just above the dip of shirt. His pink lips popped open, and he was the picture of dumbfounded.

Merlin, despite the heaviness that he had been carrying around all day, found laughter starting to bubble up his throat, and when Arthur’s eyes traveled back up to his face, he was mid-smile. Arthur’s mouth closed, but his eyes remained strangely large and glassy, and Merlin watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed.

The clap on Merlin’s shoulder nearly sent him tumbling to the ground.

Percival, who was easily three times his size, smiled down at him with casual warmth. “Well, should we start practice then?” He looked at Lancelot and Arthur with something a bit sharper in his expression. “Perhaps some sparring, if you’d like to test out our skills?”

It seemed more like Percival wanted to test out Lancelot’s skills, but Gareth interrupted with an interjection that he would like to fight too. Percival glanced at Merlin, who nodded his permission, and with a spring in his step Gareth went off with Percival as the knights started breaking off into pairs wielding dulled blades.

Merlin looked back at Arthur, but whatever question he was going to ask died on his tongue—Arthur was staring at him with such intensity that he looked positively carnivorous. He noticed Lancelot shift in his peripheral vision but decided to meekly follow the other knights.

Everywhere around him young men were clashing with sickening noises—there were loud thumps as bodies hit the ground; cracks as the flat sides of the playswords hit heads, knees, and sides; grunts and wheezes as people parried. It was so viscerally not Merlin’s scene that he felt a bit nauseous just being around it. He knew Gwaine usually shouted encouragements and critiques as he walked around like a dutiful instructor, but all he could push himself to do was say a quiet, “Good work, guys,” that no one heard.

Having made up his mind to not concentrate on the sparring, he looked up just in time to see Lancelot launch himself gracefully over the guard rail. He approached Merlin fast, expression solemn. Merlin was beginning to wonder if it was possible for Lancelot to be anything _but_ solemn.

“I would like to duel your best fighter,” he said, again in that soft yet authoritative voice. He had caught Merlin so off-guard that it took him a solid minute to realize that the best fighter in Lothian was…

“That would be Prince Gwaine himself,” said Percival, again clapping Merlin painfully on the shoulder.

A shudder ran through Merlin that had very little to do with the force of Percival’s hand—he met Lancelot’s long-lashed brown gaze, agleam with interest and caution and felt his stomach sink. Gwaine would no doubt leap at the chance to trounce an overconfident jouster from the south, but his mouth was too dry to taunt, and he was suddenly very aware of his sinewy limbs and decidedly lacking muscle mass.

“I’m not sure that I – ” he began, but Balin and Griflet who had been parrying nearby heard the softly-spoken challenge and excitedly rushed over, causing everyone’s attention to turn back the foreigners.

“What a good show this will be, sires!” pronounced Griflet, smiling endearingly and nodding at both Lancelot and Merlin.

“Show that pansy what a real duel is, Gwaine!” shouted Sir Tristan from across the courtyard, not remotely trying at politeness.

Merlin’s knees went weak; there was no way to get out of this without being completely out of Gwaine’s character. Also, after the tongue-lashing he had received from Arthur this morning, he didn’t want to show any more signs of weakness. He allowed his gaze to flicker over to the prince, and found that his expression of concern was nearly matching his—he was rubbing his thumb along his lower lip and his eyes were flickering between Merlin and Lancelot with increasing trepidation. When Arthur met his eyes, Merlin was sure he could see the fear in them, so without considering the consequences any further, he turned back to Lancelot.

“I accept your gauntlet.” And then, to add a bit of Gwaine character, said with a smirk, “Metaphorically, of course,” gesturing at Lancelot’s nonexistent armour, as he stood only in a tunic with no gloves on. Then he quickly turned his back to hide his expression of complete panic.

What were combat spells? Any combat spells? He could’ve sworn he had at least skimmed the _Magique Chivalrique_ …oh, wait, maybe he had just dusted it. No wonder Gaius always said he was the most ill-prepared sorcerer he had ever met!

He put a hand to his forehead and willed something to come forward. _Dafellaswn_ —but that was for chopping vegetables, and he didn’t want Lancelot to be diced! _Am elynion_ —but that just caused a cloud of misfortune, nothing of immediate help! _Ffrwydro_ …

“Oh, I don’t want to blow him up, for the gods’ sakes!” he hissed, frustrated.

“Erm…Gwaine? Is everything all right?” Percival appearing in his peripheral vision nearly caused him to jump out of his skin, but he managed a shaky nod in his direction. Percival looked skeptical but handed him a dulled blade anyway.

The weight of its hilt was so unfamiliar in Merlin’s hand that he had to consciously resist the urge to drop it right away. He tested the movement of his left arm holding it, then his right, then switched back to his left—both he and Gwaine had dominant left hands, although Gwaine was more capable of ambidexterity.

He turned reluctantly back to face Lancelot, who was casually testing out his own practice sword himself. Watching the knight fluidly twirl and swipe the blade made Merlin feel like he was going to wretch—Lancelot seemed terribly agile and he had not even moved his feet yet. When he saw Merlin watching him, he bowed slightly at the waist and looked up.

“Are you ready, sire?”

Merlin looked down at him and shivered again—he felt something surge up in him, something that could only be described as a terrible recklessness. If this was the fate that was being handed to him, fine; he would accept it running blind, he didn’t care anymore. Perhaps he was about to be completely demolished by the greatest knight of the age, perhaps the name of Prince Gwaine of Lothian would be slandered in tales for centuries to come, perhaps everyone would know he was a servant playing dressup—he no longer cared.

He bowed at the waist, holding Lancelot’s gaze in response, and then they both straightened. His heart was beating so hard and fast he thought it might burst from his ribcage. Lancelot raised his sword, he raised his own—his feet danced to the side, Merlin stumbled in the opposite direction—they circled each other for a solid minute, and Merlin vaguely became aware of the other knights gathered around them and chanting Gwaine’s name.

Then Lancelot lunged.

The first hit to Merlin’s side he didn’t even feel—he sprang immediately afterward from the spot he had been to a good metre away. Lancelot came for him again, and this time he threw up his sword and they clanged together. Merlin had sometimes seen knights become locked in this stance, neither willing to pull away, but Lancelot did so immediately, coming down for a harder swing that knocked Merlin’s sword from his hand so that he barely caught it with his other hand. The yelling took on a feverish pitch—with the explosion of pain from his wrist, Merlin could now feel the throbbing in his side. When Lancelot raised his sword again, Merlin desperately stabbed for his stomach, a clumsy jab that Lancelot parried easily. When they locked swords again after Lancelot tried another stroke, Merlin knew his strength was giving—he was mid-crouch and his arms were shaking, and Lancelot was so close that he could feel the heat off the other man. He looked past the wide eyes and open mouths of the knights in the crowd, the actual yelling deaf to his ears, and he found Arthur, whose arms were crossed tightly to his chest, his mouth pinched into a tight grimace…

It had been a second’s view—the prince was quickly blocked by Lancelot turning sharply, causing Merlin’s left wrist to burn and tears to prick the corners of his eyes, pulling back again to rear back for a crossbody slash. Merlin felt so small, so tired, and in such pain and humiliation that he could not bear it—he felt like he was leaving his body and could see from outside of himself how weak and foolish he was. A thought, so clear and distinct as if he had spoken it aloud, suddenly appeared in his mind:

_Rwyf am ffoi!_

Lancelot’s sword came down—he closed his eyes—his sword went flying, and so, in fact, did he. When he opened his eyes again all he could see for a moment was blue sky. He heard someone shout, “ _Lancelot! Stop!_ ”, then the sky was gone, the most tremendous pain he had ever felt exploded from his skull, and all was dark.

 

❧

 

When Merlin woke, he was in Gwaine’s large four-post bed, heavy violet quilt drawn up to his chin. There was the distinct scent of cedarwood in the air, and when he turned his head he saw that someone had lit incense on the side table. There was a cool cloth on his forehead, and his wrist had been bandaged. He could see that the sun was nearly set outside the window, and he remembered with a sinking feeling the misfortunate events of the afternoon that had led him here. When he attempted to sit up, a wave of dizziness hit him and he pressed the wet cloth more firmly to his head and let out a shaky breath.

He could not exactly place what had happened at the end—he was sure he had done a spell but he could not remember where he had learned it or how he had done it. He wondered if it might be one of those rare occurrences Gaius told him about, of sorcerers doing incredible things they would have never thought possible under threat of danger.

Well, whatever he had tried to do, it had not helped whatsoever. He frowned, annoyed at the underwhelmingness of his magic.

“‘Powerful magic-user’, my foot,” he muttered angrily, then opened his mouth to start some healing spells to at least rid himself of this terrible headache.

But the door creaked open, forcing Merlin’s mouth to snap shut—he was surprised when a golden head, brilliantly illuminated by the lamp he was holding, peered in.

“Oh. You’re awake.” His tone was uncertain, but he stepped into the room anyway, rather impressing Merlin with his lack of uptight princely decorum.

“Arthur?” he said, using the prince’s first name to return the favour. “What are you doing here?”

Arthur held something up with a rattle, and Merlin now saw that the lamp was sat on a tray of steaming food. His stomach let out a happy growl as the smell of chicken and seasonings overtook the incense. Arthur grinned, as if he had only barely managed to suppress a laugh, and came over to the bed to set the tray on Merlin’s lap.

“I noticed you didn’t eat breakfast,” he said, “or much in general, really. Which would explain why you’re thin as a pole.”

Merlin glared. “Maybe I would eat more if princey prats stopped interrupting all my meals to yell at me.”

Arthur opened his mouth to retort something equally scathing, but, staring into Merlin’s pouty face—or maybe moreso the swelling lump that was showing now that his headcloth had slipped down a little—he seemed to change his mind.

“My doubt was misplaced,” he admitted. He leaned down to fix the cloth back to where it should be, and absentmindedly brushed his hand through Merlin’s hair. “I’ve been feeling ill-prepared for this marriage since the moment my father told me about it. I blamed my insecurities on you. I’m sorry for that.”

Maybe it was the sensation of the cool cloth on his throbbing head, or maybe it was Arthur’s warm hand in his hair and the incredible sadness in his large eyes, but Merlin felt that reckless feeling bubbling up in him again. And even though that had brought him nothing but trouble before, he felt powerless to ignore it.

He grabbed hold of Arthur’s hand and pulled it to his chest, where underneath the slight sleep tunic he had been changed into Arthur’s ring still hung, hard and cool against his ribcage. Arthur’s mouth fell open and he released a startled breath.

“About what you said earlier,” Merlin said, determinedly looking into Arthur’s startled face, “about how you’re not to my standard, or some nonsense like that…You were completely wrong. Honestly, Arthur, you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.” He swallowed past the sudden welling in his throat—he hadn’t planned to say it but it had come out, and once out, he acknowledged it as the truth. Gwaine was handsome, that was to be sure; but, in the lamplight of evening, Arthur’s blue eyes glistening with emotion and his cheeks flushing pink, he could be swayed to just stare at him forever. He took a deep breath so he could continue on. “The best way I could explain my behaviour is that I’m completely out of my element. I’m sorry that I treated you with coldness. This is my home, and you’ve been unpredictable, and I haven’t really…” he gave a short laugh, “well, been feeling myself lately.”

Arthur nodded as if he understood completely (which he obviously could not, but the sentiment was appreciated), and when Merlin released his hand, he didn’t retract it, but instead started to stroke Merlin’s cheek. Merlin leaned slightly towards it, feeling something shift between them when he did so. Arthur’s pupils seemed suddenly much larger…

“I’m sorry you got hurt today,” the prince said, his voice more gravelly than before. After a moment, he pulled his hand away and his stature relaxed a little. “I’ve heard all the songs about Prince Gwaine and his fighting prowess, but perhaps it might be a good idea to…at least refrain until you’re completely healed.”

Merlin had to force himself not to grin as he plucked a potato with his fork and popped it into his mouth.

Maybe the healing spells could wait.


End file.
